


A Matter of Consequence

by Spada2014



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: F/M, Mystery, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-28
Updated: 2015-03-05
Packaged: 2018-03-09 10:25:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 31
Words: 37,544
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3246209
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Spada2014/pseuds/Spada2014
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Working at the Skyhold dispensary is unnerving Ava, a mage and healer working with the alchemist Adan. Her patients report seeing a man wielding blades, wearing a wide brimmed hat, only to deny it all afterwards. There are too many sightings for her to dismiss, and given everything going on with rifts, demons, and abominations, she reasons one cannot be too careful...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

"Did I dream you dreamed about me?

Were you here when I was full sail?

Now my foolish boat is leaning

Broken lovelorn on your rocks

 

For you sang, "Touch me not

Touch me not, come back tomorrow"

Oh my heart, oh my heart

Shies from the sorrow."

 

-"Song to the Siren," Tim Buckley

* * *

The drunken soldier stumbled into the dispensary, his hand clumsily fumbling along the wall for something to grip. Ava eyed him with obvious disapproval. It was after hours and she'd only left the outside door open to bring a patient in— a grandfatherly man whose wracking cough made sleeping outside in the infirmary tents a danger in the frosty night.

"Need medicine," the soldier finally managed to say, swaying slightly.

"What is wrong?" she asked uninterestedly, helping the old man onto the cot she had dragged close to the fireplace.

"Head hurts…" he muttered, rubbing his doughy face. "An' I feel ill."

If he'd only arrived half an hour ago… Adan would've helpfully stepped in, steering the drunkard swiftly out the door, but the alchemist had already left for the evening. It was only the old man and herself. The old man stared up at her with a mixture of gratitude and wariness, clutching her arm as she gently lowered him down into a sitting position.

"Drink some water and sleep it off," she called over her shoulder to the soldier.

For a merciful minute she thought he would comply and turn on his heels and out the door. But he did not.

"An' the medicine?" he asked indignantly.

"I have none to spare," she quipped.

"But this is the dispensary!"

"And I cannot waste any good medicine on a mere hangover," she protested.

"Blasted mages!" he spat on the ground. "Causing all this trouble and now acting all high an' mighty!" he slurred.

She turned her back to the old man and rested her fists over her waist.

"At least I don't make a sorry spectacle of myself when I drink," she hissed. "Now get out!"

It was not wise of her to provoke a drunkard, not when she was probably less of a brawler than the old man in the cot, but he'd triggered something in her, something that did not want to back down.

"I'm not leaving until you give me something!" he insisted belligerently, punctuating his words with his fist against the wall.

"I'll give you something!" Her eyes narrowed and she swiped her hand across the air in a graceful arc, charging its path with crackling tendrils of electricity. The soldier's eyes widened in an instant moment of fearful sobriety before bursting out the door.

Ava clenched her fist shut and sped to the door, slamming it closed behind him with her body. She reached beside her for the heavy crossbar, and pat the rough, cracked wood once she was satisfied it was firmly in place. After a few seconds of silence, she let out a bright laugh— a mixture of relief and delight, reverberating through the small room.

When she turned to check on the old man, she caught the expression of complete terror on his face.

"Oh, don't you worry now. I am just a healer," she explained appeasingly, moving to the end of the cot and drawing up the coarse blanket. "That display was just for show— it doesn't actually do anything."

The old man averted his gaze to a corner of the room, rubbing his fingers over the ends of his cottony beard in a preoccupied manner.

"I wasn't worried about you," he whispered, staring intently at the corner. "It was the man over there. His blades looked sharp and I couldn't see his eyes."

Ava's head turned quickly in the direction of the man's stare, but there was nothing in the shadowy corner. They stared together for a bit longer, her gaze trying to draw out any concealed shape, but nothing stirred in the flickering firelight. She even wandered over to the corner, just to put her mind at ease, but found only the broom leaning against the stone wall.

 _It was nothing,_ she sighed.

She turned her attention back to the old man. He stared into the fire, contentedly. He eventually nodded, cracking a gummy smile.

"Never went back there after she died. River-washed pebbles, smooth and white…Skip them over the moonlight…" she heard him whisper hoarsely.

"What did the man look like?" she asked curiously. He raised his eyes to her, startled from his reverie, straining to make sense of her words. She repeated the question, louder. He shook his head.

"What man?"

She balked.

"Didn't you just tell me there was a man in the corner? The blades?" she insisted, indicating the corner with her outstretched hands.

He shrugged, mystified.

No," he replied simply.

Ava scanned the room once more, drawing her shawl around her shoulders and shivered.


	2. Chapter 2

"Memory believes before knowing remembers. Believes longer than recollects, longer than knowing even wonders."

―  _Light in August_ , William Faulkner

* * *

Ava awoke with a start thanks to a rap on the door. She untangled herself from the mound of blankets she had piled on before falling asleep the previous night in the rickety stuffed chair. Rising, she glanced in passing at her sleeping patient before another knock— this one more impatient than the previous one— resounded.

The moment she swung the door wide open, she was greeted with a dangling bucket, wiggling before her bleary eyes.

"Are we ready to seize the day?" Adan's sarcastic tone was more withering than the chilly air blowing in against the room's stuffy warmth. "The line at the pump is turning around the corner already. I suggest you make like a rabbit and run."

She sighed tiredly, reaching for the bucket handle. Her hand brushed lightly over his and he flinched, his brown eyes blinking, discomfited.

"I will get things started," he stated, entering the room and removing his heavy cloak, "but I will need you to finish. Seeker Pentaghast needs me at the armory as soon as possible…" he announced proudly, a glint in his eye.

Ava smirked, shaking her head. She knew the alchemist hated being forced into the role of apothecary and jumped at any opportunity to show off his alchemical expertise.

"Anything special I should be doing?" she asked, pursing her lips with a twinge of annoyance. This behavior was giddiness on his part. He was eager to take off, she thought, raising the hem of her robe slightly, enough to tug at her sagging stockings as she stepped into her boots.

When she glanced up, she caught Adan's eyes lingering over her legs; a slight blush bloomed on her cheeks.

"Yes..well…" he stammered, clearing his throat. "How should I know? You are the one tending to the physician's orders for the infirmary tents, aren't you?"

"Of course. One of us has to care!" she sniffed.

He disappeared quickly behind the makeshift counter and began to riffle through the assorted packets of powders on the shelf. She secured her cloak and grasped the bucket's handle.

"I am off," she announced.

"Wait!" he exclaimed, his head bobbing up into view, tins clattering to the ground as he did so. He tilted his head towards the old man huddled in the cot. "What am I supposed to do with him?"

"Let him rest. I'll tend to him when I return. If he awakens before then, offer him something warm to drink…Just like most civilized people would," she added with a sly grin, taking a step towards the man, to secure his blanket.

"These are hardly civilized circumstances…" he argued. "I cannot be blamed when…" His voice trailed off when he saw Ava's panicked expression.

She dropped to her knees before the cot, running her hand over the man's neck.

_A pulse?_

He was beside her in a flash, examining the motionless man, pulling back the covers and reaching for his arm. Something fell from his fist to the ground as Adan clasped his wrist. She backed away, watching helplessly. After a few moments, he released the old man's wrist. His fragile, thin arm hung limply over the side of the cot. Ava stared intently at the floor. There was no need for Adan to tell her.

"I'm sorry, Ava," he said, with unaccustomed gentleness. "He must have passed on sometime during the night."

_Oh._

"Poor soul. He was coughing so much. I brought him in from the cold," she said sadly. "And I gave him medicine…" She glanced at his concerned face.

"When did he arrive?"

"He arrived with a band of pilgrims hailing from Redcliffe, yesterday afternoon."

"Any family?… Travel companions… for us to notify?" He crossed his arms, examining her distraught demeanor. "There is nothing you could have done. Whatever infection was festering in his lungs, it was bound to overcome him sooner rather than later."

They stared at the man for a few silent minutes.

"If anything, you made his last moments more comfortable," he told her, as reassuringly as his gruff self could. "Go fetch the water," he said, "and I'll let the physician's helper know."

Ava nodded wordlessly as her eyes focused on the small, round object that had rolled beneath the cot. She hunched down and reached for it, bringing it up to her eyes.

_A smooth, white pebble. The kind that has been tumbled down a river bed._

She raised it so Adan could see, bewilderment in her eyes.

"Look! This was in his hand!"

Adan peered at it and then furrowed his brows.

"What of it?"

"It wasn't there last night!" she confided with some alarm.

"How can you be so sure?" he scoffed, grabbing his cloak off the hook on the wall. "Did you search through the man's pockets earlier? I never took you for a scavenger, Ava…"

She brandished it before him again, insistently.

"He did not have this last night! I know!"

"How?" he asked appeasingly.

She looked down again, gazing into the man's peaceful face.

"Because…he hadn't been there…not since she died…" she murmured.

"Been  _where_? Since  _who_  died?" he puzzled.

"I…don't know," she admitted, confused.

"Maker, you aren't making any sense! You have to pull yourself together!" he implored. At her silence, he marched up and placed a firm hand over her forehead. "Go get some air," he ordered her.

She nodded again, pocketing the pebble and hauling the bucket off.


	3. Chapter 3

_"Amor, tosse e fumo, malemente si nascondono."_

_("Love, a cough, and smoke: all things that cannot be easily hidden." -Italian proverb)_

* * *

 

Adan watched her disappear into the courtyard with the bucket dangling from her arm before he went outside and signaled to one of the guards. The man would have to be buried in the cemetery on the left side of the bridge to Skyhold, he realized. Formal documents had to be drafted and proper paperwork filled out—duplicates sent to Redcliffe, as well, naturally. The infirmary aids wandered in eventually and collected the blanket-draped corpse on a narrow stretcher. He folded up the cot, leaned it against the wall, and groaned, rubbing his fingers over his closely shorn hair. He didn't want her to return and find any reminders, he told himself. He was useless when she was distraught. He always felt unsure of what to do; on more than one occasion his hand had hovered hesitatingly over her shoulder, held at bay as if repelled by some unseen force field.

He caught his reflection off a polished metal basin and peered at his weary face: bluish circles beneath his eyes, his thick, meticulously groomed beard framing a scowl.

_Merciful Maker, when did I become this old looking?_

He pat down his beard contemplatively.

_Does it matter, anyway? What use were all those years, all that sacrifice? I am easily one of the finest alchemists in Thedas and here I am, just an over-qualified apothecary._

_A failure… and an ugly, ugly man,_ he taunted himself.  _I haven't been sleeping well. Haven't really, not since…_

He chased the memories from his mind, focusing instead on the prescriptions he had to fill that morning: potions, elixirs, and powders to heal broken bones, infected wounds, and apparently an outbreak of intestinal discomfort among the hold's kitchen staff. He made a mental note to avoid the communal dining hall that day.

_Maybe she would like to accompany me to lunch at the tavern?_

He let his mind wander. He recalled with heady pleasure the finely shaped leg he'd glimpsed earlier. His lips curled into a grin and he began to hum a little ditty.

He did look forward to their daily banter, how she had no trepidation telling him what she thought, calling him out on his cantankerousness, and even what no one else there ever dared to do: second-guess him.

She could be insolent and exasperating, but it kept him honest, he realized.

_Or sane?_

He glimpsed his face in the basin once more.

 _What lunch? Fool,_ he berated himself. _We're up to the eyeballs with work. Where is she?_ he wondered impatiently, unfolding packets of dried herbs and salts before a scale.

_A great nobody. I, the formidable alchemist, a sniveling pile of snot as fire showered from above and people clamored for help, dying all around me._

_Useless!_

_Coward_.

He slammed down his mortar and lifted his head crossly only to encounter a pair of transparent blue eyes observing him from beneath the brim of a cumbersomely large hat.

He cried out in surprise.

"You were hurt, you were scared. You did the best you could. There is no shame. They are all grateful you were saved."

He stared at those pale eyes, melancholy weighing upon him. Yet, the words brought forth an unexpected relief, not just because of what the stranger had said, but because of what he'd  _known_. The stranger also seemed familiar, he thought, despite failing at placing him. As far as he could tell, he was young and robust beneath scruffy clothing. 

"Where do I know you from?"

"You don't," the stranger stated earnestly.

Adan shook his head, disoriented for a moment.

_What was I just doing?_

He noticed the salts on the scale.

_Right!_

After briskly wiping his hands on a towel, he reached for a glass flask.

_Where is she?_

He peered at the door again, longingly.


	4. Chapter 4

"The true mystery of the world is the visible, not the invisible."

- _Portrait of Dorian Gray_ , Oscar Wilde

* * *

 

 

Hester, Tameryn, and Ava found seats at the end of a long table at what was quickly becoming a crowded tavern.

"And how are things at the dispensary?" Hester asked.

"You better tell us it's been busy, otherwise you'll have to explain why you never seem to want to come out with us anymore," Tameryn sulked playfully.

"I almost fainted when you showed up at the library today!"

"I was hoping to speak to the Grand Enchanter," Ava admitted.

"Good luck—the woman has been somewhat out of sorts."

"Indeed." Hester pursed her lips. "Don't think for a moment I don't find our alliance with the Inquisition a great coup, but I don't think anyone is ever going to let her forget the whole Redcliffe fiasco…"

"Fiasco for sure. Some are accusing us of treason, of trying to pave the way for a Tevinter invasion…In their eyes, King Alistair and Queen Anora's withdrawal of support gives such claims credence. And don't forget that many would have Haven pinned on us," Tameryn observed dourly.

"If it weren't for the Inquisition…" Hester voice trailed off ominously.

"An Inquisition led by a mage…" Ava reminded them, hoping to rally their spirits.

"That's my Ava. Always trying to make things better. A true healer, through and through!" Tameryn raised her tankard gamely. "To the Inquisitor!"

"The rifts in the sky aren't the only ones she needs to seal…" Hester sighed, lifting her tankard, too. "Hear, hear!" she finally smiled.

The three women sipped their ale and lingered in silence for a few minutes, contemplating their own thoughts while taking in the lively atmosphere.

"But enough of this! We never see you and when we do, you are always so serious!" Hester chided Ava. "Whatever did you want to talk to the Grand Enchanter about?"

Ava fingered the pebble in her pocket.

"Tameryn…" she began hesitantly, "In your studies as Creature Researcher…"

The two mages exchanged surprised glances. Ava took a deep breath and drew the pebble from her cloak's pocket, plunking it down before them on the table.

"Tell me: what do you make of this?"

"This really isn't the place," the black-haired woman whispered in a conspiratorial manner, looking about them for any eavesdroppers. "If you'd like, I can take it back with—"

Ava pressed it into Tameryn's hand.

"Just tell me if you sense anything unusual…anything…bad."

She furrowed her brow and nodded. Leaning back, she closed her eyes and remained motionless. When she finally opened her deep gray eyes, she found both women observing her expectantly. She slid the pebble across to Ava.

"Nothing extraordinary."

"Not Fade-touched?" Ava asked suspiciously. Tameryn shook her head. "Not cursed?"

Again, the mage shook her head.

"Now will you tell me what this is about?"

"This pebble was tucked in a patient's hands when he died."

"And was the cause of death suspicious?" Hester asked.

"The poor man was already ill. Adan was certain we could not have prevented his death." Ava paused, wondering if she should continue. At her friends' pressing stares, she took courage to proceed. "But I am certain this pebble was not in the man's possession before he died."

The revelation did not appear to make much of an impact on the two.

"My patient reported sighting a man in the room with us before he died…But… I can assure you: there was no man," she insisted.

"No, of course not," Hester teased. "When it comes to you, that's one constant we can count on…"

Tameryn cracked a small grin, but listened intently.

"I understand your apprehension…But don't discount the Templar presence here. It's very unlikely to be something predatory: an abomination or a demon of sorts. Your patient could have been hallucinating," Tameryn explained. "Many times the dying believe they are seeing things when in reality it is just their bodies breaking down and causing—"

"And how do you know that it isn't precisely the body's breaking down that allows them to see the unseen?" Hester countered indignantly. Ava braced herself; matters of faith, of otherworldly questions, had always been a point of contention between the two.

"I don't know," Tameryn conceded, "but it is highly doubtful. I have been in situations where people reported experiencing such events, but I have never conclusively felt or seen anything while they were supposedly occurring… And I am qualified to perceive such things."

"I believe a moribund patient's spiritual proximity to the Fade at the time of passing may make him or her more susceptible to experience such phenomena," Hester began, pointing her finger upwards in an authoritative manner.

"One cannot argue with belief, can they?" Tameryn added tartly. She leaned towards Ava again. "I'm curious to hear what Adan said about the matter."

"He thought I was dredging up intrigue," she admitted apologetically. "Told me I could not ascertain the pebble hadn't been there all along. "

"Of course he would say that," Tameryn smiled, satisfied. "Adan is a logical, reasonable person," she said with a pointed look at Hester.

Hester demurred with a grimace and sipped her frothy ale, perusing the crowd with renewed interest.

"Oh! Don't look up now, but there goes that handsome Krem," she mused, her eyes trailing after the lieutenant of the Chargers as he made his way to the back of the tavern.

"There is one thing…" Tameryn turned to Ava again. "It's something you can do that will help you determine whether there truly is more to all of this."

Ava tensed.

"But before I go further, I need to ask: how brave are you?" Tameryn whispered.


	5. Chapter 5

"You must stay drunk on writing so reality cannot destroy you."

― _Zen in the Art of Writing_ , Ray Bradbury

* * *

 

Varric tapped the surface of the parchment with his quill. He sat at the corner table that afforded one of the best views of the tavern, along with Bull, Blackwall, and Cole. Bull swilled the last of the ale around his tankard before draining it.

"Another round?" he asked, sliding off the bench.

Varric shook his head distractedly. Bull headed towards the bar.

"Come on, Kid, give me something. My ass is on the line here."

"O-ho! So you have an actual ghostwriter?" Blackwall smirked, glancing at Cole.

"I'm up shit creek. Told the Inquisitor I'd do her a solid and write the next installment of  _Swords and Shields_  so she could cheer Cassandra up. Problem is, I'm out of ideas. I hate writing romance stories. It's a smutfest and I am all rosy nippled out."

"Cassandra's a fan of  _yours_?"

"Not of mine, no—of this damn serial I agreed to write so I could finance a venture that went belly-up anyway," he grumbled.

"Never took her for a fan of the genre…" Blackwall mused. "Learn something new everyday!" He raised his tankard.

"I'm almost at the point of offering to let Cassandra slap me around instead. That should cheer her up just as much, if not more…" he sighed, tossing his quill back into the inkwell.

"So Cole is good at co-authoring smut?"

"No, but I figured since he can read people's most intimate thoughts…We are in a crowded tavern surrounded by horny soldiers…Stuff writes itself." He leaned towards the young man. "Focus…" he instructed. "Scan the room. What are you picking up?"

"A redhead, apparently," Blackwall interrupted, pointing at Bull chatting up a curvy barmaid.

"They did it for his sake, in his memory, eyes like glass staring at the sky, he could have been any of them…" Cole declaimed, an intense expression upon his face.

"Too depressing. Next."

"Forgot the name. It's basic training all over again. Nervous. Head like a sieve. Is it Serrah or Messere? …"

"Nope. Bubblehead. Next."

Bull returned to the table carrying two full tankards.

"Ah! You didn't have to," Blackwall grinned, reaching for one.

"Who said I did? These are mine," Bull explained, slightly mystified that he would have presumed as much.

Blackwall leaned back, deflated.

"Rolling and rising, like being on the storm-tossed ship again—the stew would have been wiser, why did I go for the roast?"

"Maferath's balls…" Varric glanced worriedly at Blackwall, "Think it's too late to change our order?"

Bull grabbed one of the tankards and turned his attention towards the bar. Cole resumed his channeling.

"A fine ass. Best to take from behind—"

Varric's eyes widened and he scrambled for the quill.

"Jackpot!" he cried.

"Round and juicy, give it a little slap just so, prick her pincushion…"

Varric let out a small chuckle of delight and Blackwall leaned in to listen better.

"Keep it coming!" Varric encouraged him.

"Wonder if the rug matches the drapes, though… Oh, for fuck's sake, Cole, get out of my head!" Cole recited obligingly.

Varric paused and slowly peered up from the parchment. Bull had turned around and was glaring at them. He reached across the table and tore the sheet away from him, crumpling it into a ball. Blackwall sheepishly redirected his attention to the bard, who was warbling a morose ballad.

"I'm serious. No more. We're done," Bull pointed a finger at Cole and Varric.

Varric frowned, resting his cheek on his fist with great desolation. Cole's attention turned to the tavern's door.

"I'm not scared, don't come home if you can't uphold your honor, no son of mine, I'm not scared, lock them all away, toss out the key, they're the reason the Maker abandoned us, just a word, teach the bitch a lesson…"

"What's  _that_  all about?" Varric turned to Cole, but he'd already disappeared.

"Kid?…" he called out.


	6. Chapter 6

Ava hurried through the freshly fallen cover of snow, her boots noisily crunching beneath her. The evening had ended on a sour note, she thought regretfully.

"You cannot be serious!" Hester had hissed. They were huddled together, heads drawn in closer to hear Tameryn. "You are telling Ava to perform blood magic?"

"Sssh!" Tameryn hushed her sharply, indicating their surroundings. "Whether it can be considered true blood magic or not is debatable!"

"Perhaps academically!" Hester protested. "What you proposed involves blood and magic. Hence: blood magic!"

"Just because the Chantry denounces all forms of blood magic as evil does not mean it is so! I am tired of such superstitious and fearful views of an ancient and powerful discipline that was once part of every branch of magic! The Chantry's backward ways and political biases don't affect only us! Ava, you know this: the Chantry will not sanction the study of anatomy because of its fears! Physicians are not allowed to study their craft properly— they need mages like you to do a laying of hands…It hinders progress for everyone. It is hypocritical, if you ask me! And yet, the Chantry has no problem collecting our blood for phylacteries, does it? There's some blood and magic right there!"

Hester looked uneasy.

"Ava, don't do it," she begged. "When you cast that spell, the Veil will be torn and you will have no control over what manifests itself before you! What if it is a demon? Will you have the strength to fight it back? And if it possesses you?"

"If she follows my instructions, she'll have nothing to fear," Tameryn explained dryly. "This is merely a spell that will reveal and bind any creature who held the pebble in its possession. She won't be spilling more than a couple drops of blood on the stone— the stone will be the vessel to entrap it, not her. It's hardly the preamble to a demonic summoning! She has every right to ascertain whether or not her patients are being preyed upon by a rapacious entity! Would you deny her that right? To defend herself and others?

"Then take the matter to the Templars! They are equipped to handle such situations," Hester reasoned.

Tameryn's face twisted with disgust.

"Because they would be so reasonable about the whole matter, wouldn't they? She does that and her reward will be a cozy cell with apostates and hedge mages waiting to be rendered Tranquil!"

"So to make a point, to strike at the Chantry— out of pride," Hester argued, "you would risk making Ava into a maleficar?"

Tameryn snorted.

"A maleficar! Hardly! That's like saying that because you pray to Andraste, it'll make you the next Divine."

"How could you live with yourself knowing Ava had become an abomination?" She lowered her voice and reached for Tameryn's hand, seizing it tightly. "Haven't we lost too many of our own already? Didn't the Inquisitor herself tell all of us she trusted us—Nay!  _Relied_  on us!— despite everything, to show the world we deserved this chance? There's a time and a place for this argument, but for now, understand: everything that is happening here with mages and the Inquisition is greater than us, than the Chantry, the Circle. Please. Set your grudges aside…" she pleaded.

Tameryn lowered her eyes and did not reply.

"Friends," Ava interrupted, "I did not wish to start an argument…Can we please forget the whole matter?" Her heart pounded heavily against her chest. She couldn't discern whether it was excitement or terror. Perhaps both. For once she was not sure what the right thing to do was.

"Yes. On to other things…We are attracting attention," Tameryn acknowledged, glancing around uncomfortably.

"Are you familiar with that young man over there, Ava?" Hester wondered, tilting her head towards the bar. "He has not stopped staring at you since we've sat down."

Ava glanced furtively towards the bar and as she recognized the man's features, her heart sank. It was the drunken soldier from the other night. What Hester probably believed was sultriness in his probing gaze, Ava read as scorn.

"I need to go," she announced.

Without further thought, she tossed a few coins on the tabletop and rose abruptly.

"Ava!" Tameryn called after her.

The tavern's warmth dissipated into the crisp night as she trudged through the quiet courtyards towards her modest room over the dispensary. Her mind oscillated between Hester's warnings and Tameryn's instructions.

_The pebble is cool and unyielding against my hand— the stone would be the instrument to bind the entity, not I. What harm?—_

She halted abruptly, her hand clutching the cloak's heavy fabric over her chest. Alongside her, a separate trail of footsteps emerged.

 _How brave are you?_  Tameryn's words echoed as a taunt in her head.

The air wavered and flickered.

 _Turns out, not very_ , she gulped.

She blinked, blood thrumming in her ears, and before her, materializing in the tracks, a lean, wiry figure stood, its back turned to her, an odd, wide-brimmed hat obstructing the view ahead.

"His mind ebbs and flows with the dissonant song, sorrow and fear, it is not you, he is broken, but you will bear the brunt of it," the stranger told her in one breath, his voice slightly tremulous.

He turned around at last and she gazed wordlessly upon the face of a young man, hollow cheeked and frightfully pale, his piercing light blue eyes peering intensely at her.

"You are in great danger," he concluded, deftly unsheathing a pair of silvery daggers.

Nearby, another figure approached them. She whirled around dazedly. It was the soldier; he'd followed her out of the tavern.

"Mage!" he called out. "A word, if you will!"


	7. Chapter 7

"Let everything happen to you: beauty and terror.  
Just keep going. No feeling is final.  
Don't let yourself lose me."

  
"Go to the Limits of Your Longing" ~ Rainer Maria Rilke

* * *

 

Contrary to the popularly held wisdom that all mages should know at least a few battle skills to extricate themselves from the occasional hand-to-hand combat, Ava had always believed that her inability to fight had been the main reason behind her survival. She'd developed a keen sense of danger and of her limitations. As the soldier stormed towards her, however, she realized regretfully those finely honed self-preservation skills had failed her.

"Stop," she warned him, as she raised her hand, her fingers raking the air, stirring it with faint sparks. He ignored her, swatting her hand away.

"Magic is meant to serve man, not to threaten him!" he growled. His meaty hand seized the front of her cloak, pulling her roughly towards him. He reeked of drink, a sour and stale stench that wafted from his breath.

"Let me go!"

"I will," he replied gruffly, looking around and cuffing her arm with his hand. He began to drag her up the long staircase towards the ramparts. "I'll give you freedom soon enough," he told her ominously.

"To the battlements, light this one, no one will see, no one will know…" a voice repeated dully. Both she and the soldier startled.

"Who is there?" he asked suspiciously. Cole stepped out of the shadow, his hat obscuring the upper half of his face, daggers drawn. Ava squirmed, trying to extricate herself from the crushing grip.

 _The only words this lunatic wants to have with me are likely to be 'look out below,' and this other one…I don't know what he is. Perhaps a demon? Between a rock and a hard place_ , she surmised.

"What are you doing?" she protested. The grasp around her arm tightened and she realized that whatever determination had manifested itself in the soldier before had shifted into complete terror.

"Stop. You are hurting her."

The man's eyes darted about indecisively before he pushed her down forcefully, so she was leaning halfway over the parapet on the stairwell. As she struggled to right herself, she examined the fall below. It was high enough that she would not escape unscathed. Her hands helplessly sought to take a hold of the smooth stone wall.

"Hurt you push away and it pushes back. More of something doesn't make it better, it only makes more of it. He was always that way, you can't change him, it is the only way he knows!" Cole said cryptically. "Let her go."

Ava felt herself perfectly balanced over the parapet, the tips of her feet barely grazing the ground and the palms of her hand splayed over the other side of the staircase wall, precariously buffering any further downward slips. The soldier hesitated.

"Who are you?"

"Sprung loose like a wingless bird. You would do it without remorse, sanctioned by another's hate—"

The soldier appeared lost in thought for a few seconds before he decisively tossed her legs over the parapet.

"Get your demon out of my mind, witch!" she heard as she hurtled downwards.

Black smoke burst below and there he was, at the bottom, arms outstretched, aiming to catch her tumbling body. She crashed into him so forcefully, both were knocked onto the ground. The only thing she could think of as they collided was that his hat had flown off like a frightened goose. For a moment she wondered if she was still in one piece. Beneath her, he stirred slightly. His arms, she realized, were wrapped protectively around her shoulders and head, cradling her against his body.

 _Demon or spirit,_   _he feels real enough._

Cole raised his head sufficiently off the ground to catch a fading glimpse of the soldier, as he scrambled away. He rolled her off him firmly, a look of steely determination in his eyes, before rising to his feet and striding off after the man.

"Wait!" she called out nervously.

His head turned to where she sat in the snow, and he hesitated before returning to her, offering her his hand, clad in fingerless leather gloves.

 _So cold_ , she noticed, as he pulled her up to her feet. Without his hat he appeared even more boyish with his light and unevenly cut hair.

"Leave him be," she told him. "I'll make a complaint tomorrow."

She glanced at the daggers, their hilts surfacing behind each shoulder. She reached into her cloak.

"Is this yours?" she asked boldly, flashing the pebble at him.

"No," he answered plainly. He walked ahead further to pick his hat off the ground, dusting the snow off before planting it securely on his head. "It wavers and floats, everything changes, perhaps people, too. That which had seemed so certain now moves backwards…" He examined her with further interest. "It's because of me, isn't it?" he asked her contritely. "Don't do it."

"Do what?" she feigned ignorance.

_Maker, how does he know?_

"I need to know. Are you the one who gave my patient this?" She displayed the stone to him once more, on the palm of her hand. His expression softened.

"At the margins of the river, the reeds bent, floating beneath the current, it made him want to run his fingers through her hair, she asked him to teach her how to skip them over the surface. He held his breath when he took her arm. A flick of the wrist. It was the happiest moment of his life. When he gulped for air, his lungs flooding, I told him the truth: it was the happiest moment of her life. She'd asked him just so he would. He held the pebble, a flick of the wrist. He held his breath, smiled, and was gone," Cole recalled.

She peered down at her hand. The old man had been comforted by a memory from his youth. A memory of love. Of a fleeting moment of happiness.

 _But for what purpose? Didn't demons bargain with the desire of one's heart?_  That was why combatting them, evading them, was such a difficult, elusive thing.

"Who are you? Why were you there?"

_Had he caused the man's death? Does he lurk around the suffering, the ill, and the dying because it is where he derives his sustenance from?_

"The words are only a means to an end, but I am not that end you think I am," he explained.

She rubbed her cheek warily.  _Not human_ , she was quite certain.

"Do you come to the patients often?"

"Only if they are hurting."

_Does he feed on their pain and suffering?_

"Will you continue to do so?" she asked, fearful of the reply.

"I don't know. Will they continue to hurt?" He might as well have been mocking her, but the sincere expression on his face gave her pause.

"Why haven't I seen you before?"

"Why do you see me now?"

 _Exasperating!_ she exhaled.

"I don't know what to make of you."

"You never do," he said appeasingly. "You'll forget me anyway."

She stared at him, confused.

"We have met before?"

"Sometimes."

She couldn't bear it if somehow she had drawn him there. How often had she indulged unguarded thoughts? To hope or wish for an outcome, as she often had, when administering care or witnessing suffering— these were all dangerous things for a mage. Perhaps the difference between a prayer and an incantation was even flimsier than she believed. What if she had somehow unwittingly invited him? Spirits came when beckoned properly, she knew. His guileless face appeared incapable of violence, but the daggers told a different story.

"I have to go," he told her, looking towards the direction in which the soldier had fled.

"What are you?" she persisted.

"I don't know," he answered. "But I am Cole."

"Could you become a demon?" she asked cautiously.

"If I become a demon, they will cut me down." He became agitated. "I don't want to be bound. I saw the Gray Wardens bind demons, their dark song growing louder, slick with blood. It calls, I fear someday it may utter my name, roving eye on a moonless night."

A chill crawled up her spine. She had cared for plenty of the injured from the siege at Adamant. Even after their bodies healed, they cried out in terror, haunted by memories more horrid than any nightmare. All Adan's elixirs, even the most potent ones, could only numb them into a stupor, a brief reprieve from the unrelenting remembrance. At least demons could be banished, cleansed, pushed back into the Fade, even destroyed. Not so easily done with memories.

 _What if I bound you to this stone?_ she wondered, rolling the smooth pebble between her fingers.  _Perhaps it would make you safer…or make the infirmary safer._  Tameryn had told her to bring the stone to her once the ritual was completed so she could properly cleanse it. They could figure out what to do once he was safely contained.

"Don't," he asked her aloud. "I do not know what I am, but if I am changed further, I may be lost before I am ever found."

She pondered his words.

"I won't do it," she assured him. But she had to tell someone, she realized.

"Thank you," he nodded appreciatively. "And don't worry: you won't remember me once you leave—"

That she did not like. It made her uneasy.

He continued to stare at her and they stood in awkward silence until he betrayed some confusion.

"Wait—That didn't work. You are supposed to forget."

"But I don't want to forget," she informed him.

He considered her words.

"Most want to forget. Something is different. Is it you or me? We meet for the first time for the last time."

They wandered together towards the dispensary. She noticed he glanced often at the path the soldier had taken.

"Promise me you won't seek him out," she urged him.

"He wants to hurt mages," Cole confided. "He seeks to please him— 'See me,' he cried, but the hand in the gauntlet never caressed his head…"

Ava watched him speak in his enigmatic, trancelike manner.

 _I can see how one could become enthralled_ , she thought, her eyes taking in how his full lips arched in a perfect bow.

"You are a strange one," she told him, as they reached the doorstep.

"You always say that," he nodded, turning away.


	8. Chapter 8

Lady, running down to the riptide

Taken away to the dark side

I wanna be your left hand man

I love you when you're singing that song and

I got a lump in my throat because

You're gonna sing the words wrong

 

“Riptide” ~ Vince Joy

 

* * *

 

 

When the dispensary’s door creaked open, she saw light and heard footsteps. Still rattled, she instinctively retreated.

 

“Ava?” Adan’s voice called. She emerged from behind the door, somewhat confused. For a moment his expression softened, but he quickly crossed his arms and chided her. “Had I known you were gallivanting about Skyhold, I wouldn’t have made such an effort to be quiet!”

 

She noticed he was wearing his heavy cloak over a nightshirt.

 

“Why are you here?” she asked, shutting the door. 

 

He poured liquid from two different vials into a beaker and then blended the solution briskly with a glass stirring rod.

 

“I was given a special request,” he replied dismissively, his face cast in stern concentration. She sat down and observed him as he worked with graceful fluidity, taking pinches of ingredients from different containers scattered throughout the shelves. She found his flurry of activity behind the counter reassuring, even soothing. It was a welcome distraction from an evening filled with odd twists: from considering to perform blood magic to almost being hurled down from the ramparts. The image of Cole haunted her thoughts and she became overwhelmed with guilt. 

 

_A spirit walks among us in the guise of a man doing Maker knows what. I need to tell someone._

 

“What happened to you?” he asked suddenly, bewildered. 

 

She startled from her thoughts and peered down at herself. The hem of her robe was torn.

 

“Nothing—this is just an older robe I need to mend,” she lied. 

 

It was a bad lie, she realized, noticing her cloak was damp, smeared with soot and moss— probably from where it had rubbed against the parapet. She brushed her hand over it.

 

“Somehow I find it hard to believe you would have donned a torn robe to cavort through the fortress,” he muttered. 

 

“Increase my pay and I’ll be glad to replace my current wardrobe,” she suggested.

 

She focused on Adan’s nightshirt: heavy brushed flannel, cream colored and striped with thin red lines. She discretely raised her hand to her lips to conceal a grin.

 

“So who is that tincture for?” she asked when he set down the mixture. “Is it to revive the unfortunate soul who dared to wake you up from your rest?” she teased him, imagining the icy glare of disapproval anyone bold enough to rouse him from his sleep would have been skewered with. 

 

He peered down at his nightshirt disconcertedly.

 

“First of all, it’s an _elixir_ , not a tincture. If you had been studying your _Materia Medica_ you would have realized that.” He poured the viscous solution into a small glass flask. “And need I remind you of never violating a patient’s confidence?” he continued patronizingly. 

 

She smirked. 

 

_He must think of me as such a burden._

 

“It has to be Seeker Pentaghast!” She glanced at him sideways. “If that woman tells you to jump, you only ask, ‘How high?’”

 

Her comment annoyed him. It wasn’t subservience; there was a distinct difference between that and gratitude. But she couldn’t know. _How could she?_ he reasoned, slowly swirling the elixir around its flask, the glass becoming coated with a translucent green liquid.

 

“It’s not for her,” he muttered, keenly focused on the swirling. He had to maintain a steady hand or the mixture would separate. “It’s for someone else who is waiting up for me…”

 

Ava’s eyes widened at the sudden gentleness in his voice and she felt a small pang of alarm. She knew so little of the alchemist’s life outside the dispensary and the infirmary. She thought of an ailing beauty, sprawled across a four-poster bed, eagerly anticipating his return. She turned to glimpse the striped night shirt once more and barely stifled a giggle.

 

_Improbable!_

 

“What is so amusing?” he asked crossly.

 

“Nothing, nothing…” she offered vaguely. “Do not keep your secret lady waiting,” she grinned suggestively, rising from the chair and stretching her arms over her head.

 

_Secret lady? Whatever gave her the idea?_ …He grimaced, realizing that he’d left reasonable room for misinterpretation. 

 

He set the flask down, observing the contents settle properly. What did it matter? Why should he care if she misunderstood? 

 

_Let her._ _Wasn’t she out and about around Skyhold, probably up to no good?_ he sulked, smarting from the rather flimsy cover-up story justifying her shabby entrance earlier.

 

A heavy knock rattled the door and startled them both. Before either one could respond, a commanding voice boomed behind it.

 

“Open up, by order of the Skyhold Guard. ”

 

Ava froze. Adan’s brow furrowed.

 

“One moment,” he replied cautiously, directing a questioning look at Ava. 

 

He stood between her and the door as he opened it into the frigid night. Although the two men standing before them wore the Inquisition’s tabard, there was no mistake about who they really were: their armor, weapons, even their stance as they examined the two mages indicated they were templars.

 

“Ava Meverell?” one of the men asked in an all-too-familiar foreboding tone.

 

She nodded weakly, rooted in place.

 

“You must come with us,” the templar announced. 

 

She gripped the back of the chair to steady herself. Adan’s eyes narrowed.

 

“You are proposing to abscond with my apprentice when she is needed to fill orders for the infirmary?” he asked irritably. “Can’t this wait until morning? We are working through the night as it is!”

 

“No,” the man retorted.

 

“Then I would like to know the reason behind this, so my complaint to your superiors is thorough,” he declared defiantly. 

 

“Ava Meverell, you are under suspicion of performing blood magic.” 

 

She blanched as she heard the accusation. Adan peered down at her torn hem in disbelief.

 

_Maker, Ava! What have you gotten yourself into?_

 


	9. Chapter 9

"Heaven and hell seem out of proportion to me: the actions of men do not deserve so much."

 _Borges Verbal_  ~ Jorge Luis Borges

* * *

_He was supposed to forget, the memories are resilient. He was supposed to forget, he didn't, now she is plunged into a nightmare._

_It is my fault._

It was not his place to judge. That was not what he had come through for. Whenever the pain yielded to ugliness, Cole always reacted, as naturally as one who did not shy away from battle did, by raising arms against an incoming blow. This retribution was not unfamiliar ground to him, he knew, the cool dagger handle ensconced firmly in his hand as he stealthily wove his way between shadow and moonlight down the sleepy halls of Skyhold. What was unfamiliar was the sharpness of his thoughts, the absence of the usual ritual of searching and understanding another's pain, the lack of his desire to embrace it, become one with it, and heal it. His eyes searched predatorily, awareness heightened, a drive to hunt down his mark overwhelmingly urgent. It consumed him, his body for once unfamiliar and strange as it reveled in the sensation. The poisonous thoughts coursed through his mind, signaling a response: rapid breath, heavy heartbeat, a fire igniting his resolve with absoluteness.

_You will answer for this._

He recognized the emotion with easily dismissed surprise; it had gripped him too thoroughly already for him to extricate himself. He perceived it with the dull ache of the physician who understands himself lost to the symptoms of a disease he has treated in others.

 _Rage_.

* * *

The soldier cupped his hands into the cold water in the washroom's basin and splashed it over his face; he pat his cheeks, peering into the mirror on the wall in front of him and contemplated his sunken, bloodshot eyes.

 _The more power those aberrations are given, the more they abuse it._   _They cannot be trusted._

He'd done the right thing, he reasoned, telling his superiors at the barracks about the mage from the dispensary.

 _Maleficar_ , he remembered his father uttering somberly.  _All of them. First opportunity they get_.

He cupped his hands one more time into the basin and lowered his head reverently.

_I, too, father, am not afraid or untrue._

He slapped the water on his eyelids, feeling slightly more invigorated and at ease. He took a deep breath, his hands shaking slightly as he recalled the mage's warm, soft, yielding flesh beneath his squeezing fingers. Her fear in the face of his decisiveness had felt good, the memory evoking a shiver of pleasure. His breath quickened as he replayed her helpless thrashing against his fierce grip and her mewling pleas. He closed his eyes, his cracked lips parting in a cruel grin. He wiped the excess water off, raised his head and glanced into the mirror once more.

Reflected in the glass, in the black and white half light of the empty room, a pallid, wraith-like figure stood ominously behind him.

He whirled around in terror, but before he could utter a sound, a gray hand shot forth and clamped over his mouth. The figure thrust him into the wall forcefully. A steel blade slithered up against his neck, making it difficult to swallow.

"You are the evil you see in others. This corruption is your own doing, your duty was to protect, to defend, scattered, lost to shrill shrieking, destroy what you fear, what you do not understand," the stranger accused him, a timbre of anger in his voice. "She is all kindness, the warmth of hope to those she touches in the solitude of their suffering, present and there, unafraid and alive…and you would snuff it out like that, plunge it all into shattered darkness. And for what?"

The blade edged deeper into his skin.

_The demon has come for me!_

He tried to seize Cole's arm, grasping it by the wrist with both his hands, but Cole's hold was unfaltering, and all his efforts managed to accomplish was to make him angrier. He rammed the soldier against the wall harder, debris from an emerging crack toppling down and dusting the top of his head.

"Unravel the lie you wove," he demanded. ""Un-tell it," he said, gravely. "So she can be free."

Cole noticed the soldier had begun to tremble. He'd squeezed his eyes shut and his lips feverishly muttered faint words.

"By Andraste's grace… soul…Maker…Deliver… evil…strikes in the day…lurks in the night…"

Still keeping his dagger's blade firmly poised along the soldier's jugular, he balled his free hand into a tight fist, his arm recoiling.

"Demon…" the man whimpered.

It was as if his fist ached, tingling with the anticipation of crushing bone, bruising flesh, the only offering acceptable to appease his fury. He'd grown tired, so tired, of those so filled with…

 _Hate_.

He halted his forward swing, contemplating the frightened man.

_Demons are bound when you tell them what they are so loudly that it's all they can hear._

He had almost succumbed to his hatred. It had screamed at him, relentlessly.

 _What does it mean?_ he puzzled.

Cole remained immobile, a putrid odor, earthy and rotten, rising between them. He realized the soldier had soiled himself in fear. He promptly withdrew the dagger, but held him by the collar.

 _I have made it worse,_  he realized.  _It is wrong, it swivels unevenly. I am not as before,_ he worried.  _Dangerous._

He pressed his lips together in thought.

"When you tell them, say it was 'Cole,'" he whispered in the man's ear. "This you must not forget," he added, releasing him. He turned, aiming to disappear into the night. A parting glance over his shoulder revealed the lonely figure of the man gradually sliding down against the wall, openly weeping.


	10. Chapter 10

"Gratitude looks to the Past and love to the Present"

 _The Screwtape Letters ~_ C.S. Lewis

* * *

Adan trod over the icy ground as quickly as his legs could carry him. The snowdrifts stirred over his path as the wind whipped through his cloak. Firmly ensconced beneath his arm was his leather-bound apothecary's case, filled with flasks, vials, and solutions. It was the only thing at that moment ensuring that he would reach his destination unhindered. When he arrived at the main hall of the fortress, he could hear the dulcet tones of a lute, a silvery voice singing to guests sitting before the remains of what appeared to have been a lavish dinner: platters littered with bird carcasses, table cloths stained with deep reds and earthy browns. A pleasant beverage-induced torpor appeared to have settled over the assembled guests. The occasional burst of laughter echoed through the hall as he discretely kept to the outside of the tables, walking along the walls, trying to blend in with the busy waitstaff. Ambassador Montilyet's keen hazel eyes followed him with interest as he approached the guards keeping watch over the large door close to the Inquisitor's throne.

The guards observed him blandly. He wondered how often they crossed their lances in front of people's faces each day.

"The Inquisitor has sent for me," he declared.

He obligingly fished out his Grand Alchemist's medallion from beneath his robe, hoisting it up around his neck to show them. One of the guards nodded and disappeared inside. He waited impatiently as the music droned on and the remaining guard openly stared at him. After several moments, the door creaked open, and from behind it emerged the hooded figure of the spymaster, Leliana. She beckoned him inside. Once the guards had secured the door behind them, she led him up another staircase and through a narrower doorway with another set of guards.

"Thank you for coming at such short—and late— notice!" she said appreciatively. She offered him a slight smile. "You can imagine how annoyed she is with me for making you come out here at this time."

"I don't mind in the least," he said earnestly.

He would never forget, for as long as he lived and breathed, that it had been the Inquisitor's face, sooty, sweaty, and bloodied, that emerged from the smoke as he lay in the path of imminent death. Combat raged around them, the flames rising and scorching the heavy wood pillar that had collapsed over him and Minaeve that night in Haven. Even as the others screamed for her to seek safety in the Chantry, she clasped his hand tightly and, peering into his eyes, firmly reassured him that she would not leave without them. He had trembled and wept like a terrified child, the explosions shattering the barracks near them. He remembered how the Seeker rallied to her side, helping her lift the pillar and then aided him back to his feet. Since then, anything Inquisitor Trevelyan and Seeker Pentaghast needed from him, he was more than ready to provide. It was the least he could do, he concluded.

The spymaster opened a final door to a staircase leading into a pleasant, open room. Bookcases sat in one corner behind a desk covered in papers, a haphazard pile of books, scrolls, and several empty cups. The fire crackled and Adan politely bowed as the Inquisitor attempted to raise herself up in the bed.

"Master Adan!" she greeted him. "I told them I could wait until morning," she told him apologetically.

"You are miserable," Leliana insisted crossly. She turned to him. "She can't take a deep breath without feeling pain."

Adan nodded, setting his case next to him on the bed. He sat beside her, on the thick, down-stuffed cover. He couldn't help letting his eyes wander to her hand, seeking the mesmerizing glowing mark, a direct connection to the Fade. Since Haven, when not in the presence of a rift, it remained merely a ragged, angry red scar slashed across her palm.

"I fight Darkspawn, Venatori, Red Templars, almost face off with a dragon before I fall down a precipice into the Fade…but what does me in is a clumsy spill off a horse." She leaned back into her pillows. "Two broken ribs," she lamented.

"Let's see," Adan urged her.

She unbuttoned her nightshirt. He noticed her fingers brush over a necklace, a small silver medallion glinting in the firelight. It appeared to depict the serene face of a woman— perhaps Andraste? Upon examining her, he frowned: the physician had wrapped her torso. He tugged at the wrap.

"This is no good. It has to come off," he said commandingly. "If you are struggling to take a deep breath, then this will make it worse." He removed the wraps carefully and saw the deep bruise on her lower left ribcage. Leliana stepped in closer to observe and winced at the sight.

"May I?" he asked, rubbing his hands together.

"Please," she acquiesced.

The spell emanating from his fingertips vibrated softly. As he traced his hand over her ribcage, the vibrations he cast resonated back to him—a steady, consistent hum, until his fingers trailed over the bruised area. Where the bone had been fractured, the hum was disrupted. He removed his hands and reached for his case, plucking out the flask he'd prepared earlier.

"Take ten drops of this, diluted in a half cup of fresh water, as needed, but not to exceed four times a day. The nerves will be numbed, diminishing the pain. But also, this has a transmutation that will bind to the fracture and form a protective barrier around—"

"Fascinating!" the Inquisitor interrupted. "What is the alchemical transmutation?" she asked, genuinely interested. "Must involve spagyrics…" she concluded conspiratorially.

Adan couldn't help grinning for a brief moment. Another reason he admired the Inquisitor: she had dabbled a bit in hermetic studies at her Circle in Ostwick and could appreciate his skills. He remembered how she had enthusiastically assailed him with questions when they first met at Haven, going as far as searching for old Master Taigen's missing notes for him, an innocent excitement in her face when she surprised him with the rediscovered papers. Leliana's eyes appeared to glaze over as he explained the painstaking process behind creating the flask.

"Ordinarily, it would take six weeks for the fracture to heal, but if you take this elixir at least twice a day, you should be healed in two," he explained.

She glanced at Leliana.

"Well, Josephine will be relieved! The ball is in three weeks."

"You focus on getting better and I will handle Josie…" Leliana poured water into an earthenware cup on the nightstand and added a few drops from the flask.

"Yes…Please do. I can't engage in combat in a flouncy dress," the Inquisitor grumbled.

"You may resume light activity after this week," Adan added. "I'll come back to verify your progress in a couple of days."

Leliana handed her the cup of water.

"You are a treasure, Master Adan," the Inquisitor nodded to him, smacking her lips after taking a sip of the medicine. "Thank you."

He packed his case wordlessly, nagging himself to summon the courage to make his request. He knew the timing was wrong and it would be a blatant imposition on his part.

"Inquisitor…I have something to ask you, if I may be so bold," he ventured.

She handed the empty cup back to Leliana.

"Right now may not be the best time," the spymaster said pointedly.

The Inquisitor waved her hand dismissively.

"No, no…It's fine. Please, Master Adan. What is troubling you?"

"I am concerned about my assistant at the dispensary…Tonight, two templars came for her and took her away. She is a mage and they are accusing her of blood magic…I am worried for her…" he stated contritely, avoiding her eyes. "I need to know that she is alright."

"That is a serious charge," she said pensively. "Do you think there is any truth to it?"

"I can't imagine it being so," he said faintly.

"Then allow me to reassure you," she continued gently. "They are called templars only for the lack of a better name right now, but know they are no longer associated to the Chantry's templars as we knew them. They are part of the Skyhold Guard and they are here to protect us- mages included. I am sure that your assistant is being treated properly. She'll be given an opportunity to defend herself."

 _It's not enough,_ he thought sadly, not daring to ask for more.

"I appreciate it, Inquisitor," he said politely but hastily. He seized his case and with a stiff bow began to make his way out.

"Master Adan—wait!" she called after him. He halted at the steps. The Inquisitor turned to Leliana. "When is Cullen…" She stopped, correcting herself, much to Leliana's amusement, " _Commander_  Cullen— supposed to return?"

"He had to debrief the soldiers who returned from Emprise du Lion before they could return to their duties. Another hour, perhaps? I can't imagine he'll be much longer. He's probably with the cartographer in the War Room as we speak."

"Send him a note asking him to look into this matter for me…to ensure all those procedures we implemented are being followed…as a favor…to a friend of mine," she smiled at Adan.

"Of course." She sat behind the Inquisitor's desk and reached for a quill. "What is the assistant's name?"

"Ava Meverell," he enunciated clearly.

"You will have news of your assistant before morning," the Inquisitor assured him.

Adan nodded appreciatively and lowered his head, slightly flustered.

"Thank you," he whispered, only hinting at the gratitude she inspired in him.


	11. Chapter 11

"They cannot scare me with their empty spaces

Between stars—on stars where no human race is.

I have it in me so much nearer home

To scare myself with my own desert places."

"Desert Places" ~ Robert Frost

* * *

 

The cell was in a narrow hallway off the main quarters. They'd said little to Ava, mostly orders, and except for the wild eyed boy in a guard's uniform who'd openly gaped at her, it was as if she did not exist. Or matter, except enough to be shut away. A dank, musty odor hung in the air as they led her down to the cell: a cot, some hay scattered on the stony floor, a rough blanket like the ones at the infirmary. Iron bars all around her. They clanked the door closed behind her and left. The wind whipped flurries over the night sky outside the small window across from her cell. She gathered the blanket around her and sat heavily on the cot. She lost herself for a moment, staring numbly at her boots. A low, scraping, scurrying noise nearby brought her back, and she swiftly lifted her feet off the ground, hugging her knees to her chest.

She regretted, with all her being, even contemplating the possibility of performing blood magic. She had no idea that the mere thought of conducting such rituals would unleash certain, swift punishment. A maleficar, she had been warned, was someone deluded by power and magic, a conduit between this world and demons. The cautionary tales always warned that the motives behind succumbing to the allure of such magic were often devoid of malice: the search for a definitive, yet elusive solution, a desperate situation, or the most deceivingly innocent one: curiosity. Many a mage had crossed those forbidden lines while uttering promises involving the words "only this once" or "just for a bit." And she? She had been willing to take her chances blindly; she, whose magic had always been of the practical, healing nature, up against all the swirling darkness of the Fade. She had been considering it, she admitted, if only to protect others.

_The irony._

She leaned against the damp rocks on the wall and stared at the window for a long time, the square blurring, dissolving through the prism of her tears.

 

* * *

She hurt something terrible, Cole sensed. He sat down on the ground across from her, resting his back up against the metal bars. Her face remained fixed in an expression of sorrow even as she slept.

 _It is my fault. Something is wrong. They keep remembering,_  he realized.  _Their memories snag on the edges._

He watched over her restless sleep.

_Where do I end? Where does she begin?_

Ordinarily he would not know— he became lost in them, in their minds. It was the only way he could truly be with them and understand. Their emotions overwhelmed him, but also informed him. He entered their consciousnesses willingly, buffeted by the most violent storms, emerging wiser in his grasp of their inner workings.

She grimaced, straining against the uncomfortable position she'd fallen asleep in before her eyes opened and she blinked a few times, her gaze seeking the window ahead.

"How long will I last before I have to ask? Dare not risk, if they say 'no' then I will know, as long as I don't ask, they aren't as cruel as they may be…" he whispered. He tried to allay her fears. "He is scared, the youngest one, but if you ask him for some, he will bring it to you."

He noticed her eyes become glassy with welling tears. Her breath unfurled in tendrils of white smoke in the cell. She uttered something. It could've been his name or simply the word "cold."

"It won't matter if he says it in anger or in regret; they will know the truth," he told her.

Ava shivered. He rose and sat beside her on the cot. She turned towards him, resting her forehead on his shoulder and he reached for her hand, lacing his fingers between hers.

_Here is comfort. But who gives, who receives?_

He listened, sensing the turmoil, the sadness, and guilt. It felt leaden in his chest, a sinking ache. For once, he was speechless, none the wiser. It struck him that what he had felt, had been no echo.

The emotions had been his, and his alone, to grapple and contend with.

 _When I hurt because of me, I cannot see,_ came the uneasy revelation.


	12. Chapter 12

"If trouble comes when you least expect it then maybe the thing to do is to always expect it."

The Road ~ Cormac McCarthy

* * *

_Maker!_  Cullen rolled his stiff shoulders forward tiredly.

He'd been sorting through the new map folios for the War Room with the cartographer for the past hour, secretly commending himself for dodging Josephine's guests for what would have been an undoubtedly tortuous exchange of pleasantries and platitudes among wits already soaked in too much wine. He had spent most of the evening before that debriefing his soldiers, receiving reports about Red Templar activity, red lyrium caches, frozen passes hindering troop movement, silverite and dawnstone deposits and the best way to set up an operation to extract them…It went on and on, and once they'd gotten around to discussing some final, minor technicalities, he found himself yearning to return to Evelyn's side. He'd been close to wrapping things up for the evening when the young, red-faced recruit from the Guard burst into the room.

"Commander Cullen! I am sorry… I am delayed. I couldn't find you anywhere," the boy gasped. "A mage has been detained—"

"What is the charge?" he asked, stacking the map folios and tapping them over the table into a tidy pile."

"Blood magic," he said with a spooked expression.

Cullen raised his hand to scratch the back of his neck— a gesture those who knew him well understood as his being tired, frustrated, or flustered. Sometimes all three. The timing couldn't have been worse. The fact he had more senior templars off on a mission in Orlais and a few others who had been granted furloughs after Adamant meant that he had been left with a rather inexperienced group. The lack of any serious incidents among the mages since Haven had made him overconfident. He should have known better, he chided himself, especially as he was still recovering from the worst symptoms of his lyrium withdrawal.

"Who brought the mage in?"

"Struthers…and the other one…the tall one, with the mustache," the guard comically lifted his wiggling fingers to his lips. Cullen inhaled deeply so he wouldn't chuckle.

"Avery," Cullen corrected him. "And…?"

"That's all, Commander," the messenger declared. "They just wanted you to know that the mage is in custody."

"And did they determine whether or not the mage was letting blood?"

"Pardon?"

Cullen sighed.

"Did they determine whether or not the mage had any cuts…anything whatsoever that would indicate traces of blood magic? Did they investigate the mage's quarters for any tools, any equipment, any other materials?" he offered helpfully.

The guard appeared utterly confused.

_This one is so green. Country boy. Someone's having a good laugh at me somewhere._

"Go back and ask. These are things I need to know before I can decide anything." He looked at the cartographer and leaned back into his chair. "We might as well continue," he stated with resignation.

When the door burst open half an hour later, he expected to see the breathless guard again. Instead, Struthers himself marched in.

"Commander!"

"Struthers." He sat up with concern.

"I have a sensitive matter to discuss…" He directed his gaze at the cartographer. "In private."

"Very well. We'll call it a night," he nodded to the man.

He quickly gathered his papers, rulers, compasses, and quill, undoubtedly relieved, and jaunted out of the room before Cullen could change his mind again.

"That Chauncey's an idiot," Struthers mumbled. "Fell off the turnip wagon, that one. Wastes half the evening trying to locate you and then doesn't know what to say."

"Do we have a blood mage on our hands or not?" Cullen raised an eyebrow.

Struthers launched into a long-winded explanation of how they had brought the mage in based on an accusation made by a guard who affirmed he'd been attacked and almost killed by the mage's demon.

"Did you make the guard take you back to the location of the attack?"

"No, Commander," he admitted. "The man was very shaken up—"

"Pity!" Cullen concluded. "There would have been vestiges of magic—traces of spells that required blood. Perhaps even a nice, large, obvious puddle of blood! You do realize that, correct?" he asked, straining against his impatience. The templar nodded guiltily. "Please tell me you examined the mage while Avery searched his…or her… quarters for any evidence."

The templar cleared his throat.

"No, Commander…" he offered contritely. Before Cullen could react, the templar continued, "It would have been pointless because we were at the dispensary and there are all kinds of blood letting tools there—"

"The dispensary?" Cullen squinted.

"Yes, Commander. The mage was Master Adan's apprentice."

Cullen resisted the urge to pound his fist on the table.

"Do you understand you are no longer serving the Chantry?"

The man nodded.

"Then you must also understand the Inquisition implemented certain procedures at Skyhold to secure fair treatment of all people!" He emphasized the 'all.'

The man nodded again, slowly.

"And I am sure you realize that if there is anyone who would have known whether his apprentice was a budding maleficar it would have to be one of the foremost alchemists in all of Thedas! Did you even bother to ask him for any aid? Insight?"

"He was quite cross when we took her away," Struthers admitted.

"There's a reason mages won't trust us and if we continue to behave as the templars of old, then we will continue to see mages taking matters into their own hands, usually with disastrous results," he explained frustratedly.

A knock on the door distracted him.

"Commander Cullen!" It was Avery. "I have an update!"

"Come in!"

"Commander," Avery said, respectfully, as he entered the room. "The mage's accuser came back in." He paused for effect. "He says the demon returned to attack him."

Struthers cast Cullen a smug look of vindication.

 _Of course, there is always the chance that the accused blood mage IS a blood mage,_  Cullen concluded, staring ahead stoically.

Another knock sounded on the door. It was redundant; the door was already open.

"Come in!" Cullen found himself almost growling.

"Commander Cullen, I have a message from the Inquisitor." It was one of Leliana's agents.

"Yes, go ahead."

"The Inquisitor is aware that a mage, Master Adan's apprentice, is under suspicion of performing blood magic and has been taken into custody. She requests that you look into this matter personally as a favor to Master Adan, her esteemed friend," the messenger reported dutifully.

_Of course, news always finds its way to Evelyn—even when she is supposed to be recovering quietly._

The note had barely touched his hands when he heard hurried footsteps stop at the doorway.

"Out of my way," he heard the stern Nevarran-accented voice order both Avery and Struthers. "Cullen, we need to talk."

"What's the matter?" he asked.

 _What_ isn't _the matter tonight?_  he thought.

Cassandra glared at the two templar guardsmen disapprovingly.

"If you are both here, then who is watching the mage?" she inquired.

"Ch-Chauncey," Avery announced nervously.

"Chauncey? You left a suspected maleficar alone with  _Chauncey_?" the Seeker asked, incredulously.

Cullen secretly hoped it wasn't so, if only to save face from the Seeker's blunt scorn.

"Chauncey… and Montague," Avery gulped.

_Thank the Maker. At least that much they'd done right._

Cullen rose at last.

"I'd appreciate it if you refrained from upbraiding my men."

At his words, both Avery and Struthers pulled themselves up into a straighter stance. Yes, he'd knock their heads together later for the blatant disregard of procedure, but he'd do so privately. No need to humiliate them before the Seeker.

She frowned at them all.

"Let's talk now," she stated impatiently.

"Go back to your stations," Cullen ordered his men.

They gave him a formal salute in acknowledgment. Cassandra observed them leave with an amused expression.

"That was going quite well, right until they gave you a nice Chantry templar salute."

Cullen eyed her sheepishly.

_We're all struggling to overcome old habits, apparently._

Cassandra leaned against the table, crossing her arms.

"You can release the mage."

They noticed Leliana's agent was still skulking by the doorway, waiting for instructions.

"You can go back," Cullen called out. "Tell the Inquisitor I'll update her…personally…once I have verified a few matters."

He smiled briefly, thinking she might appreciate the subtle innuendo.

Once the agent disappeared down the hall, Cullen turned to Cassandra again.

"What about this demon?…"

"It is Cole," she revealed.

"Cole?" Cullen asked, confused. "How?…"

"He told the accuser his name. He wanted us to know. And now I cannot find him anywhere."

"Do you think Cole's—"

"I don't know," Cassandra said warily. "Here is what I have so far, however: he's allegedly attacked the same guard twice. He's missing. The mage is involved somehow, although there is no evidence of blood magic, and the guard accusing them is a known drunk. There is definitely more to the story."

"Where would he go?" Cullen wondered pensively.

"Maybe Solas can help?"

"Perhaps…We should let him know, regardless, in case Cole goes to him." Cullen peered at the doorway. "I should also let Evelyn know."

"And Varric…and Bull…and maybe Blackwall…" Cassandra listed. "Those who are friendly with him."

_What a splendid mess._

"And Sera, too, of course…" Cullen teased. Cassandra snorted, her face finally relaxing into a slight grin.

"Go to Evelyn— I'll talk to the others and send word to release the mage." She examined his face and pat him lightly on the back as she prepared to leave. He wondered if she was concerned about his soundness of mind given his most recent bout with overcoming his addiction.

"But I should—"

"Don't overdo it, Cullen. Just go to her," she reassured him. "I think templar-mage relations at Skyhold could use a boost right about now."


	13. Chapter 13

"He didn't know what was defeating him, but he sensed it was something he could not cope with, something that was far beyond his power to control or even at this point in time comprehend. "

 _Requiem for a Dream_  ~ Hubert Selby, Jr.

* * *

 

The sky was streaked with orange by the time they released Ava from the cell. The wind had died down and morning activity at the fortress was approaching a frenzied pace. Her body ached from the hunched position she had adopted for most of the night and the cold of the cell lingered even beneath her skin, as if irradiating from her bones. Seeker Pentaghast had ordered her immediate release. The templars minded her curt commands, but she could see them bristle. She had never met the Seeker up close before, despite the fact Adan often fulfilled armory requisitions for her. The woman was intimidating; she came across as impatient and unrelenting. The young guard they called Chauncey worked himself up into a dither thanks to a few glacial stares and brisk comments pointing out his ill-fitting uniform and his unfamiliarity with protocol. When she was finally brought in to speak to the Seeker, she was not sure what to expect and nervously found herself standing up as straight as she could. The Seeker asked her about the guard who had accused her; that had gotten some color to return to her cheeks. She animatedly told the Seeker about the night he'd burst into the dispensary, his reaction at her refusal to provide him what he wanted, how she had chased him away, and then how he had stalked her from the tavern, up to his tossing her over the staircase. She lied about the distance of her fall. She lied about where she had landed. So when the Seeker examined her while she asked her if she knew Cole, even going as far as describing his hat to her, she had replied honestly, albeit indirectly, with another question.

"Who is Cole?"

"So you don't remember," the Seeker exhaled. Ava didn't correct the misunderstanding.

She told her that perhaps they'd come back to talk more to her. She also told her the guard who'd accused her would be spending some time in his own cell until certain details of his story had been thoroughly examined.

"One more thing," the Seeker had called out after her. "Come tell us if you remember anything…"

 _Or anyone,_ was what she was implying _._

Ava left quickly after that.

* * *

 

The door of the dispensary was locked and a growing pile of orders had been wedged beneath it. She dipped down and collected the bunch of papers, calculating how much of her morning routine would have to be pared down to fulfill them before flustered orderlies and aides came knocking. She reached for the heavy iron key in her robe's pocket and unlocked the door. Inside all was still. The fire had died down overnight and Adan had, as usual, left her a small stack of beakers, mixing rods, and measuring spoons to wash.

 _At least he held on to some hope that I'd return,_  she thought, contemplating the small mess of crusted, crystalized solutions clinging to the rods and beakers.

She sorted through the orders trying to decide which were the most urgent, deciding finally that none of them were life-or-death scenarios and that they would all have to wait until she had rested for at least part of the morning. Surely, Adan would understand, when—and if— he appeared. She hauled herself up to her modest bedroom, finding it quiet and gloomy as usual— the shutters boarded against the wind, the far corners housing a collection of random pieces of furniture in various states of disrepair. Her room, being one of the few on that side of the fortress the stonemasons hadn't had to repair extensively, had become a kind of repository for the odd assortment of belongings found in adjacent rooms: old crates and trunks, their padlocks rusted solid, wooden chairs with stuffed seats, their stained upholstery frayed, two armoires, their paint faded and peeling, the wood on one of them warped and a door missing on the second. The empty frame of an oval mirror acted as the lonely sentinel guarding the small cemetery of discarded objects. Ava started a fire and once it took, she made her way to her narrow bed, collapsing onto it, fully dressed. Something dug into her hip uncomfortably and she pat down her clothes for the offending item. It was the pebble, she realized, removing it from her pocket and placing it atop her nightstand. She closed her eyes and slipped into an exhausted slumber while wondering if he would come to her that morning.

* * *

 

Adan hadn't slept well. The pile of books next to his bed provided little distraction. He'd found himself rereading a sentence again and again, his mind chasing the tail end of worries. When the messenger finally came to him, he'd been up for an hour at least, fully washed and dressed. He'd received the news of Ava's release with silent relief, ready to shake his unease away with the unfolding of yet another day filled with requisitions, orders, and prescriptions to fill, until the messenger let slip something he had not known:

"And the man who attacked her will be held while the Guard looks into new evidence."

"What attack?" he asked, confused.

"That's all it says," the messenger confessed, showing him her note. It bore the spymaster's insignia.

_An attack?_

He remembered the torn hem and the disheveled figure she cut the previous night. Still, she had not confided in him.

 _Why didn't she tell me?_ he puzzled.

It nagged him the whole time he made his way from his quarters, through the maze-like stairwells and ramparts, down to the courtyard, to the dispensary. He was torn between his desire to see her, make sure she was well, and the need for an explanation and clarification.

The realization struck him, as he grasped the doorknob.

_Why would she tell you anything?_

_You are nothing to her._

_No one who matters._

He withdrew his hand as if stung and slowly began to retreat.

 _She can handle all the orders. I shouldn't bother her. Perhaps tomorrow,_ he told himself.

The unpleasant thoughts that mocked him since Haven, however, had been unleashed.

_Cowardly, grotesque, weak._

He let his arms hang by his sides, defeatedly.

_No one._

As he turned, he almost bumped into a young man in worn clothes, a gaunt face and the most limpid blue eyes.

"Excuse me, he apologized, edging past him, eager to lose himself in all the other matters that populated his list of tasks.

The young man observed him slip away.

* * *

 

 _I said nothing, why did I say nothing?_  Cole wondered, peering up at the shuttered window behind which he knew Ava rested soundly in an inky, dreamless, peaceful sleep.

_He pierces himself with the sharp words and I let him twist the blade._

His eyes trailed after the fading figure of Adan.

 _Not rage, not pride, nor sloth,_  he gathered, mostly to reassure himself.  _Not fear, hunger, terror, envy, or despair, either._

He remembered the simple gestures that lured him out from hiding: watching her tend to the ailing and ill, threads of life fragilely tethering them to their broken and hollowed bodies, each gust of pain threatening to sever the connection; she did not shy away from them. As their bodies became hostile enclosures, as their bodies failed and evicted them, through pain and the indignity of trails of spittle, involuntarily emptied bowels, malodorous and pustulent wounds, she shepherded them to comfort, her steady hand, kind smile, reassuring voice, and infinite eyes.

 _No, none of those,_ he concluded.

He remembered the forehead against his shoulder, the delicate hand squeezing his. It had anchored him to her side, but why?

When it dawned upon him, he immediately made his way back to the main hall, panicked and uneasy.

_I need Solas to help not make it so—Now._

_I almost forgot one,_  he remembered, terrified.

_Desire._


	14. Chapter 14

"Yesterday I was clever, so I wanted to change the world. Today I am wise, so I am changing myself."

-Rumi

* * *

"No!"

The emphatic refusal resounded through the quiet courtyard. Evelyn's attention was drawn away from her thoughts to find Solas and Cole descending a side staircase away from the main hall, engaged in an argument. Her hand traveled to the growing ache on her torso; it was almost time for another dose of elixir. Still, she'd awoken feeling well enough to accompany Cullen on the walk along the ramparts back to the garrison tower. She'd been eager to escape her confinement and the drudgery of the endless Antivan trading contract Josephine had forwarded her for approval during her convalescence. Solas' face was clouded in a stern expression that usually signaled the discussion, as far as he was concerned, was over. Cole appeared distraught, she could tell, approaching them calmly. She wondered if he realized how much he had riled up Cassandra and Cullen.

" But you like demons!" Cole insisted.

"I enjoy the company of spirits, yes—which is part of why I do not abuse them with bindings." Solas marched forward, peering over his shoulder. Cole dourly followed him.

"It isn't abuse if I ask!" he declared.

"Not always true." Solas turned to him sharply. "Also, I do not practice blood magic, which renders this entire conversation academic."

Too much talk of blood magic lately, Evelyn thought, uncomfortably.

The discussion appeared to have reached an impasse. They diverted their attention to her, as she stood by watching them. Cole approached her with urgency.

 _Has he always seemed this boyish?_ She peered at his face, so fair, but slightly ruddy with the blemishes that often plagued youthful complexions. _Has he always seemed this vulnerable?_ He seemed less ethereal and more substantial.

"He won't bind me," came the accusatory complaint. "He's a mage, and he likes demons, but he won't help."

Solas stood defiantly in the background, watchful eyes anticipating her reaction.

"Cole, we just saw the Grey Wardens try to raise an army of demons. You want Solas to bind you?" she censured him. She hadn't meant to sound as harsh as she'd come across, but the memory of the blood-drenched mages incensed her.

"He has to!" Cole demanded.

He walked away from them nervously.

"If Solas won't do the ritual to bind me, someone else could. Will! Like the Warden mages! And then…" He faltered. "I'm not me anymore. Walls around what I want, blocking, bleeding, making me a monster," he confessed.

 _A monster?_ Evelyn startled. It had been the accusation flung at him by some of the others from the beginning. _Had their fears gotten to him at last?_ She recalled the words of the spirit she met in the Fade. Hadn't it told her that everything that happened in their world also affected the Fade, changing it in ways unimaginable? _Could Cole be vulnerable to change because of his coming through from the Fade?_ The answer seemed obvious. All occultist texts repeated the old adage: "As above, so below."

"Isn't it extreme for Solas to bind you? What if that takes away the part of you that makes you…you?" she tried to reason. Cole looked at her pleadingly.

"Helping makes me who I am. I help the hurting. That is what I do, all I do, am, me!"

Solas furrowed his brows.

"And if binding you erases your mind? Your consciousness?"

Cole turned to her again.

"You wouldn't make me hurt innocent people. I don't want to hurt innocent people again."

Evelyn shook her head.

"There has to be some middle ground between 'do nothing' and 'bind Cole with blood magic.'" She directed her words more at Solas than at Cole.

Unfortunately, she realized, with a pang of frustration, all of the studies that involved any rapport with spirits outside the Fade had not been accessible to her and her fellow mages at the Circle. _As if ignorance were the same as prevention and a viable form of defense_ , she frowned. The Chantry would have them believe that every single spirit that crossed over from the Fade was corrupted and that any communion between them and humans inevitably led to abominations. She was convinced it wasn't so. Every mage had heard of stories that told of alliances between humans and spirits. The Chantry declared them as apocryphal, but there were far too many to dismiss so easily. As she examined Cole's restless, pacing form, however, she knew better than to turn a blind eye to potential warning signs.

"Indeed," Solas finally replied, much to her relief. "I recall stories of amulets used by Rivaini seers to protect spirits they summoned from rival mages. A spirit wearing an amulet of the unbound was immune to blood magic and binding. It should protect Cole as well," he told them. "The resources of the Inquisition could be used to find such a talisman." He looked at her meaningfully. It would take some skillful maneuvering to convince her advisors to allocate the means and undertake the mission to help Cole.

"Good," Cole said simply, stomping away. "They will not take me," he vowed.

Evelyn exhaled. The ache in her ribs surfaced again, more persistently.

"Solas, do you think Cole is alright? Doesn't he seem…different to you?"

"He cannot cross back into the Fade. That alone is sure to alter him in some way."

"Alter how?" she wondered. Her eyes hovered over the armory building. "You got word from Cassandra, I assume?"

"I did," Solas replied with a smirk. "Knowing Cole, I'd say he was simply protecting the mage."

"Normally, I'd agree with you. But the fact he went after the guard after the attack…It is not like Cole. It is almost as if he were…bearing a grudge? Could that be possible?" A thought crossed her mind and she raised her eyes to the elf. "Solas, you don't think he could turn…into…" she couldn't bring herself to say it. Perhaps it was because she could see in Cole's eyes a disarming lack of malice, or maybe it was that she appreciated the odd but endearing ways he sought to bring relief to those who suffered around him. The thought of having to harm him upset her profoundly.

"It is possible," he admitted. "But…Cole came through for a specific reason on his own, one that resonated very strongly with his essence in the Fade. As long as he remains true to that essence, it would prove difficult to change him."

"Could someone be preying on him?" Evelyn asked in a hushed voice.

"I do not know, but it appears unlikely…The fact that Cole is aware of his inner turmoil should be reassuring. Bindings usually indicate a loss of agency, something Cole still displays."

"Yes…That's an excellent point. And if by agency you mean stubbornness…I don't think I have ever seen him behave like that," " she muttered.

Solas contemplated her thoughtfully.

"Yes…he has, as of late, exhibited some unusual traits."

"So you noticed, too..." Evelyn whispered, drawing nearer to him.

"Had Cole possessed a body, his host's human characteristics would have become a part of him naturally. Cole has not possessed a body, however. He has taken solid form, but it is inhabited solely by a spirit. Perhaps what is affecting him is the natural consequence of taking a corporeal form."

"I don't follow," Evelyn admitted. The absence of a human host in Cole's case, had been something they'd wondered about and even marveled at.

"Perhaps the realm of the physical is causing him to become more human," Solas revealed. Evelyn eyes widened. "Why not? We, mages, can enter the Fade and find ourselves similarly altered and affected."

"Maker…" she muttered. "What do we do?"

"Easy: let the Kid be himself," came the rough voice behind them. They turned to see the dwarf standing a few steps away from them, his arms crossed over his chest.

"Varric!" she shouted, half startled, half angry.

"Sorry—I didn't mean to butt in, but Cole stormed by me without a word just now and I noticed you both out here having a chat. Thought I'd ask what is going on. When Cassandra's interest in anybody is piqued, it's never in the good old-fashioned eyebrow-raising way."

"Surely you can't believe that Cole becoming more human is in his best interest?" Solas asked Varric, but cast her an curious glance as well.

"If he came over from the Fade to come muck around with us here, he might as well appreciate it for all it's worth. He wants to be someone. Let him be remembered. Let him have a normal existence," Varric argued.

"Rivaini amulets, you said?" she asked, turning to Solas.

"Yes."

"Very well, Messeres: come with me, then. I am going to need your support when I speak to the others," she said, heading back towards the main hall. "Solas, you will have to reassure them that Cole hasn't succumbed to any demonic callings, and Varric…it'll help if we have someone other than two mages vouching for Cole."

"What do you plan on doing?" he asked, as they began to make their way past the scaffolding and an assortment of representatives, couriers, messengers, diplomats, and guards.

"'Place your faith in me as I have placed mine in you,'" she recited, with a grin. Those were the words most widely quoted from her speech the day she was made Inquisitor. "I'll just do what I always do when there are matters concerning those closest to me," she smiled impishly. "I pull rank. I'm calling a meeting around the War Table. I need to buy Cole more time so we can help him sort this out." Evelyn paused, immersed in her thoughts. "We need to deploy agents to locate one of those amulets for Cole…And I have to convince Cullen and Cassandra to proceed with the investigation of a criminal matter without interviewing Cole," she said flatly.

"Well, you'll really just have to convince Cassandra then," Varric insinuated.

Evelyn gave him a disapproving stare.

"I'll have you know that Cullen and I keep our duties and our personal matters separate," she protested.

"Really, Twinkles? You have to work harder to change that, then. Maybe wear your hair differently… Or not beat him so badly at Wicked Grace…" He winked.

She had to suppress a grin at that. They paused before the door leading to the War Room's antechamber and Evelyn turned to one of the guards posted outside.

"Good morning," she addressed her amiably. "Is the Ambassador in already?"

"Good morning, Inquisitor. Yes, she is."

"Excellent." She motioned for Solas and Varric to follow her in. "Cole will get that amulet," she told them with a familiar tone of fiery determination.

"Of that I have no doubt," Solas readily agreed, with veiled amusement.

 

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The dialogue at the beginning of the chapter is directly from DA Inquisition. I'd also like to say a very sincere *Thank you!* to everyone who has supported this fic. Your kindness and appreciation make writing this a real joy.


	15. Chapter 15

"The single biggest problem in communication is the illusion that it has taken place."

― George Bernard Shaw

* * *

Ava returned to her duties in the early afternoon. She could have easily slept through the day, as she was so tired and drained, but orders kept arriving, and the orderlies checked in persistently. When she finally descended into the dispensary, she undertook the unrelenting chores of mixing, grinding, measuring, and pouring. There was nothing unfamiliar about her prescriptions and she was able to fill them with a minimum of consultation to her manual. Besides the prescriptions, there were patients sent to her by the infirmary for smaller ailments: a lingering earache, a sprained finger after an icy slip, an irritated stye on an eyelid. Soon she had a kettle of water boiling and cups of tisane distributed among those waiting.

 _He didn't come by today,_  she thought wistfully.

The hour grew later and soon she would be able to close the dispensary for the evening. He hadn't come to see her and she realized she had spent the day hoping he would. She wondered where he could be.

* * *

 

It was the little things that gradually began to annoy her. The drying cloth that kept falling from its hook, the drawer that stuck anytime she hurriedly rammed it shut, or her last patient's persistent throat clearing. She struggled to keep herself from unraveling when she locked the door for the night, turmoil unfurling inside her despite her outwardly calm. She engaged in her evening routine mechanically; it felt even more devoid of purpose. She detested how she could not shoo away the hope, her eyes darting to the door at the faintest rattle. She lay down in the unmade bed, staring up at the swirling shadows dancing across her ceiling. An annoying creaking eked from the empty mirror frame as it swiveled lightly, to and fro, with cross winds seeping in from the cracks in the masonry. As the sound grated on her, she rose from her bed, stormed to the mirror, and placed a placating hand over the frame to still it once and for all. When she released her hand, again the mirror frame began to rock slowly.

"Enough!" she yelled, gripping the frame angrily.

A stinging sharpness pierced her finger, and she pulled her hand away to see that a shard of broken glass attached to the inner rim of the frame had created a small cut on her finger. She watched the drop of blood swell into a rich, deep red, over her skin.

_It would be so easy, wouldn't it? Just one drop…_

* * *

_Why is it doing that?_

The feeling wasn't all unfamiliar, Cole knew. It was common; he'd sensed it so many times, in both the young and the old, in the turmoil of the present, in the reminiscences from the past, in the anxieties of the future. The strangeness was in how the feeling did not relent now. It stayed with him like a long, lugubrious shadow, unwelcome companion, weighing on him. He could not lose it, shake it, no matter what he did or where he went. It crept up on him and once it gripped him, he felt removed from the world, as if everything around him were happening far away, seen from behind a distorted window. The feeling was made of longing and a paradoxical loneliness that was filled with another's presence. He stopped roaming and set a precise course.

* * *

 

She was standing before the frame, a finger in her mouth, staring into her own mind. Cole might as well have drifted in with the wind for all she knew, since when the frame swung again, it was he who stood on the other side, contemplating her with those gentle eyes.

She blinked at him slowly and took a step backwards.

"Don't come any closer," she cautioned, risking a rapid glance at the red bloom spreading over her fingertip before placing it back into her mouth.

"It doesn't work like that," Cole told her. "It has to be done with intent."

She reached for a handkerchief and wrapped it tightly around the cut.

"If it were that simple, the battlefields would be swollen…" he told her, his voice quieting down.

 _She appears sad,_  he detected.

He lifted his hand towards her, tentatively, pausing, unsure.

 _What comes next?_  he wondered.

Ava smiled weakly and raised her other hand, fitting her palm over his. They stood across from each other, a mirror frame and splayed hands between them, hers warmer and smaller.

"You seem to know when I am not well." Her eyes glistened. "You've shown me nothing but kindness."

He examined her.

"I am trying to see, but it slips away, does not stay, I cast the line but it floats back. I cannot see…" he confided. She tugged at him gingerly, leading him to her side, by the fire. He openly stared. How little attention he'd paid to their features, to what was on the outside before- always seeing through other eyes. He discerned the graceful curve of her neck, the wisps of fine hair that spilled from her bun. He focused harder, the silence in her mind unnerving him.

Then, he thought he had it.

"Just a few words could end whatever distance there is, hope turns to fear. What do I do? What should I do?" he recited.

"No…I know what to do," she whispered, staring into the fire. "I just never found the courage to," she confided.

Cole's eyes widened.

 _That's not right_ , he told himself. Had he read her wrong?

_Full of ebbs and flows and I never know which._

He closed his eyes and listened.

_Silence. An unexpected door, shut against me._

_But how? But how?_ He had felt the emotion so clearly, so it had to be. It was there, as real as she.

"He hasn't come back since," she revealed. "I wonder if he is disappointed. Or perhaps embarrassed. Sometimes I'd catch him looking and I'd think, 'Maybe'…but perhaps I just tricked myself into believing it because I wanted it to be so. I thought to myself…" She shook her head, a pain-stricken grin on her lips. "I thought… 'Improbable!' Who could ever like such an impossible man? Who could love a man in that ridiculous, dowdy nightshirt of his?" her voice broke slightly at the memory. "Who else?" she wondered, her eyes lost in the flicker of the burning fire.

 _It hurts._ Cole thought, his eyes shutting out her words, understanding at last those hadn't been her thoughts he'd gleaned.

 _Mine_.

_I've always felt the warmth, but never stepped into the flame._

_And now I am burning._


	16. Chapter 16

"The feelings that hurt most, the emotions that sting most, are those that are absurd - The longing for impossible things, precisely because they are impossible; nostalgia for what never was; the desire for what could have been; regret over not being someone else; dissatisfaction with the world's existence. All these half-tones of the soul's consciousness create in us a painful landscape, an eternal sunset of what we are."

~ Fernando Pessoa

* * *

"What's wrong?" she reached out for him, concern in her voice. "Are you ill?" she asked, slipping into her well-worn healer role, examining his eyes, her fingers seeking for swollen nodes along his neck. "Can you even be ill?" she puzzled.

"What was isn't anymore. Perhaps I can."

"What do I do?" she asked anxiously, unsure as to whether she should stay by his side or run downstairs for something to help him. He clutched his head, rocking slowly. "Tell me how to help," she pleaded.

It rose within him, an unpleasant thorniness, a hissing din, subdued only by a quavering voice that repeated "No," over and over, until he saw Ava had covered her mouth with her hand in what he could only interpret as worry.

His had been the voice crying out "No."

"I need you to find someone."

She nodded, listening carefully as he gave her instructions.

* * *

"Messere Tethras?" a firm, but soft voice interrupted him. He looked up from his parchment to face a woman in a hooded cloak, hands demurely clasped before her, bright eyes staring at him inquisitively.

"That depends… Who are you?" he teased, laying down his quill.

"A friend requests your help," she stated, aware of the attention they were beginning to attract.

"Let me guess: the 'friend' is waiting for me outside, somewhere dark and secluded and wants to have a private little chat about old times?"

"He said you would know how to help best."

Varric chuckled.

"It's Cole," she whispered.

She watched the dwarf's expression harden into one of peculiar urgency as he tossed a few coins over the table, pat down his pockets, and nodded a brisk farewell towards the tavern keeper.

"Why didn't you just say so?" he scolded her.

* * *

"Maker, what is wrong with him?" Varric asked her. "Kid!" he called out to Cole, as he lay curled on the ground, clutching his abdomen.

"It hurts, Varric. I don't know what to do with it."

"What hurts?" he asked, scrutinizing him.

Ava stood back, observing helplessly.

"Everything. It grows too strong, too fierce. It wants to burst out and I don't want it to."

"What does?" Varric prodded, kneeling beside him.

"I only know what to do when I am facing it, not when it is here," he pointed to himself. "I am scared."

"You're going to have to do better than that," he urged him. "Do we need to get Solas?"

"No…No…he is too much like I was before to understand how I am now. But…  _You_  know, Varric. Anytime the cart pulls away from the gate, she stares over her shoulder back until she can't see clearly anymore, it all stretches out as far as she may go, no matter the distance, just waiting…Even the slightest, smallest scraps are a feast…In between, it grates and drags without her."

Varric squinted, the fragmented imagery coming together into something he recognized all too damn well.

"Now why would you bring up all that stuff about me and Bianca?…" he asked a bit sullenly.

He shifted his attention to the woman hovering over them. "And who are you?" he asked. "How do you know Cole?"

"Cole is my friend," she said cautiously.

She knelt beside them, placing a hand over his forehead.

 _This is futile. What should a spirit's baseline temperature be, anyway?_  she exhaled, disconcerted.

Cole groaned at her touch. Varric observed her pensively before pressing his lips together into a taut line.

"So, are you by any chance the mage the templars brought in last night?"

She nodded, a bit reluctantly.

"Can you give us a moment?" he requested.

She politely nodded again and hurried down the steps, leaving them alone.

He smirked knowingly, his suspicions stoked.

"Talk to me, Kid." He sat down heavily next to him, patting him on the arm. "What's this all about? Does it have anything to do with this amulet business? Or maybe…her?" he asked, indicating the stairwell with a tilt of his head.

"Yes," Cole replied.

Varric rubbed his face tiredly.

 _This might take a while,_  he told himself.

"It's too much- I can't hold it all. Mine, hers…everyone else's."

He listened.

"So much pain, so much sadness."

"But I thought you handled that all the time."

"If it's mine, it doesn't make room for theirs," Cole explained.

"Listen: I'm a 'Point! Shoot!' kind of guy and right now you are all over the place. You're not doing so great. I think we need Solas—as much as I hate to admit it."

"It hurts," Cole insisted, hugging himself tighter. "Over everything— all of them."

"All of whom?" Varric shook his head, confused.

 _Ava…Rhys…Cole,_ he thought, unable to utter the names.

"I can't make it better anymore, not for them, not for me. No matter what I did, no matter what I do…I keep failing," Cole told him, distressed.

"What you  _did_? Failing? If I didn't know any better…" Varric muttered, dismayed.

 _Regrets_ , Varric realized.  _The Kid's wallowing in it._

He looked him over sympathetically.

"Get up," he tapped Cole on his arm. "If you are really going to do this being human thing, we have to set a few ground rules for your well-being… and my sanity."

He'd gotten Cole to sit up and was giving him a moment before forcing him back on his feet.

As they approached the landing, he lent him his shoulder to grip for support.

"Are you sure he'll be alright?" Ava asked with trepidation, watching Varric reach the bottom step.

" Let me tell you something: you may think you know how awful varghest meat tastes just from smelling it while it roasts… But you don't know how truly shitty it tastes until you actually try it. And the Kid here has taken the equivalent of a mouthful."

Ava did her best to hide her confusion.

"Come on. We're going to check in with Solas."

"I can come and help," she offered, reaching for her cloak.

"It's alright," he assured her.

"Can I at least give him something to ease his discomfort?" she insisted.

"Can you conjure two tankards of ale and sing a few depressing songs?" Varric mumbled contrarily, heading for the door.

Ava tilted her head.

"Pardon?"

"Nah," Varric waved at her dismissively, as they slipped silently into the night.


	17. Chapter 17

"When so many are lonely as seem to be lonely, it would be inexcusably selfish to be lonely alone."

 _Camino Real_  ~ Tennessee Williams

* * *

Skyhold's main hall was once again the stage for a boisterous and lively affair in full swing. He avoided the entrance and guided Cole, who trudged closely behind, through what felt to him like an obscene and unnecessary number of steps until they were able to cross into the library tower adjacent to the hall. He hoped Solas would still be there despite the hour. He peered cautiously past the doorway, noticing all the lit candles. He caught a glimpse of the lean, wiry frame hunched over a heavy tome on a table and breathed a sigh of relief.

"I'm surprised you aren't out there mingling," Varric taunted him, pulling Cole inside.

Solas' greyish almond-shaped eyes examined them, his brows furrowing only slightly.

"It has been a trying evening," he told them. "I've been interrupted by errant guests trying to get their bearings." He indicated several used goblets littering the end of the table. "They seem to be under the impression I am part of the serving staff," he said crossly.

"You could always go upstairs to the library to do whatever you do," Varric surveyed the desolate room, taking in the ladders, buckets, cloths, and scaffolds stashed away for the evening.

"I would not get anything done with Dorian hovering about and asking questions," Solas complained.

They remained silent for a few moments, half expecting the impertinent mage to call down to them with an ominous, "I heard that, you know."

"Here." Varric led Cole to the chair opposite Solas.

"What is the matter?" he asked, peering at both of them.

"He's not doing very well," Varric explained. "I thought maybe you could make sure he wasn't becoming—"

"Becoming a demon?" Solas interrupted, the twinge of irritation in his tone growing stronger. "That is always the main concern, isn't it? I am convinced the Chantry is responsible for most of the abomination incidents in Thedas. According to them, it's the only thing mages know how to do. It has become a self-fulfilling prophecy. You don't hear of such things happening— at least not at such alarming numbers— among apostates, among those who are beyond the Chantry's reach."

"I'm a dwarf; magic isn't my thing. I'm here for him," he pointed at Cole. "And I couldn't give a rat's ass over this Chantry bullshit. But I've seen my share of demons and I would rather the Kid not be cut down," he replied testily. "Will you talk to him?"

It took Solas a moment to realize that the question was directed at Cole, not him.

"I'll leave you two to it," Varric replied. "I'm getting a drink. You care for one?" he turned the knob on the door leading to the main hall.

Solas pulled his chair over to face Cole.

"Look at me..." Varric heard him intone in the background.

He scanned the hall cautiously for any signs of Cassandra before joining the reception.

_I doubt the Seeker would be among the professional schmoozers here._

Further inspection revealed Josephine engaged in a delicate mediation between two very drunken and increasingly belligerent representatives vying for turns to sit on the Inquisitor's throne.

He chuckled.

_I don't envy you, Ruffles. I almost prefer the Deep Roads over this crap any day. At least Darkspawn will try to do you in quickly._

His eyes landed upon a freshly replenished platter of cheese and a tray filled with goblets of red wine.

 _Well, maybe I am exaggerating,_  he admitted, wandering over.

Between sips of wine and bites of sharp Fereldan cheese, he spotted an unexpected guest.

_Evelyn?_

She stood with her back up against the wall, smiling tensely at an animated group that clamoring for her attention. He sniggered at the sight and brushed his hands together slowly, plotting his approach. He jaunted over, adopting a purposeful gait and serious tone.

"Inquisitor, important message for you. A moment, when you have a chance," he interrupted, punctuating his official impersonation with a bow.

"Of course!" she acknowledged, with visible relief. "Please excuse me," she apologized to her deflated audience, following Varric towards the door. "It's been a pleasure."

"Fancy finding you here," he said, as they moved away from the crowd.

They dispensed with the usual complaints about such events; that they thought of them as forms of torture went without saying.

"You have no idea," she huffed. "I had to sell my soul to convince Josephine to help with that amulet. She is going to call in a personal favor from a contact of hers. This is the least I can do to thank her. Until this thing is fully healed," she indicated her torso, "I am stuck regaling guests at all these functions."

"Speaking of amulet...I had to bring Cole over to Solas."

"What is the matter?"

"He is a mess. If I didn't know he was a spirit, I'd swear he was going through a rough puberty."

"You joke, but I don't like to think of him in distress or peril."

"I don't like to see him like this either," he replied guiltily.

"Is he there right now?"

"Right ahead." He flung the door open for her.


	18. Chapter 18

"The best way out is always through."

~ Robert Frost

* * *

Solas sat with his hands clasping his knees, facing a subdued Cole when Evelyn walked into the room followed closely by Varric.

"Solas?" she called out quietly.

"Come in," he invited them.

"What's going on?" she asked gently, pulling another chair up to them.

"It seems to be as I suspected. His claim to a physical form has begun to take a toll on him."

"What do you mean by that?"

"Try to imagine this: a person who is unable to differentiate between his own emotions and another person's emotions, feeling everything with the same intensity."

"But I thought Cole always did that," Varric noted. "I even asked him that."

"Yes, but Cole was able to delve into these emotions from a spirit's neutral and centered perspective."

"And the difference now?…"

"He is experiencing his own emotions—not that he did not before, but until recently his emotions manifested themselves always in response to the feelings, reactions, and needs of others."

"Denser, heavier, the air is no longer light on me," Cole told her.

"What was the final decision at the War Table after Varric and I left?" Solas asked.

Evelyn exchanged glances with Varric.

"Josephine believes one of her contacts, a Rivaini noble, might be able to obtain an amulet for us."

"How soon?" he pressed.

"The contact is already in Ferelden. If she is able to help us, then we should hear back by the end of the week." She hesitated, turning her eyes back to Cole. "Otherwise, we will have to send agents on a much longer mission… to Rivain."

"There was water and there was wind, but now I cannot tell which one makes the ripples. There is nothing but myself, and I tire of my words," he said listlessly.

"It is my hope that the matter is settled soon," Solas continued. "Cole is vulnerable," he revealed.

Evelyn turned to him with surprise.

"I thought you said—"

"That Cole will be bound by blood magic is highly unlikely, provided he stay at Skyhold until the amulet is found…That is not the vulnerability I was alluding to," he explained with an edge of impatience. "He is vulnerable to himself. To his own intense emotions."

"I do not want to be bound. I do not want to be lost. It is not why I am here, or why I came," he said passionately. The feelings come and go, but never leave, the only things changing are the reasons for it. Same face, different names."

Evelyn faced Cole.

"We are doing our best to get you that amulet as soon as we can so that you don't have to suffer any further. But in the meantime there are two things we can do."

Varric wondered what she was getting at and saw that Solas appeared intrigued as well.

"The first is the obvious one: we keep you and the Venatori away from each other. The second thing," she leaned forward. "Is teach you that emotions are just part of being alive. You'll have to do your best to understand them…and cope with them."

"Untidy, the colors and edges bleed into each other, fade and change," he murmured. "How do you do it?" he asked. "What do you do with it all?"

"That's the trick, isn't it?" she told him, not without sympathy. "Because we all deal with our feelings differently, especially when they overwhelm us." She looked up and indicated the dwarf. "Varric is worried about you. Do you know how he handles his unease?"

Both Cole and Solas glanced in his direction.

"He tries to make light of it."

Varric snorted slightly.

"There's an expression, Cole: to keep your demons at bay. It's a figure of speech for some, but can have a literal meaning for mages…and spirits…You and me…The expression is usually preceded by some kind of action. For example, when she is distraught, or angry, Leliana prays. She has conversations and even arguments with the Maker, as if she were standing before him. And Dorian…he quiets down his anxieties with knowledge; he pores through books seeking answers, solutions, and power. Cassandra writes reports and detailed accounts after difficult missions. She argues they are necessary records for posterity, but I believe the process of collecting her thoughts helps her acknowledge her grief and her doubts… We do all these things to keep ourselves moving forward. But I don't need to tell you all this: you have seen this for yourself. You know each one of us well. You know the machinations we put ourselves through." She sat up. "What I am trying to say is: you have watched us, so do what we do." She reached over, taking his fine, pale hands in hers and wondering at them— hands that he'd conjured out of sheer will when he crossed from the Fade: the hands of a young man containing an old spirit. "Keep your demons at bay," she repeated pointedly.


	19. Chapter 19

"I loved her not for the way she danced with my angels, but for the way the sound of her name could silence my demons."

 _Remington Typewriter Poetry_  ~ Christopher Poindexter

* * *

 _I am done with this_ , Ava concluded impatiently, pulling her cloak on and hauling the satchel over her shoulder.  _If I sit around here, nothing good will come of it._

Her feet carried her, the destination a familiar one, as she indulged her thoughts.

 _I am at my best when I am helping others. That's when I am truly me,_  she realized, stepping through the wide, arched doorway into the Skyhold infirmary.

"I thought you might like to have an extra pair of hands about?" she asked the Head Physician's assistant, a stout Royan called Girard.

"It's been a busy night, but not too bad," the man said tiredly. "Mostly people who have over indulged…" He made a gesture with his hands, as if shaking a cup before his lips. "I welcome your aid, though. I had to take two back-to-back shifts— Mullins is out sick."

"Is she alright?" Ava asked, placing her satchel on the desk and surveying the receiving area. A woman waited, resting her head against the wall, eyes shut, as she sat on the long wooden bench.

"The season's usual ailments," Girard replied, clearing his papers off the table to make room for her. "Cough, fever, congestion. But she can't be anywhere near the patients," he justified.

"Of course," Ava acknowledged. She pat Girard on the arm. "Go get some rest. I'll handle the walk-ins. Who else is on duty?" It occurred to her that perhaps there was a small possibility that Adan would be there, too.

"Collins should be coming out of surgery…Olivier and Elanar are doing the rounds. If you need help, you can always fetch one of them." He stood and stretched before casting her a grateful look. "Thank you."

She winked at him as she approached the woman, placing her hand on her shoulder and crouching down to speak to her.

She hadn't been at the infirmary for more than hour before she had seen a steady incoming stream of patients.

"We were patrolling the ramparts when he just went down," the soldier explained. "Bam!" His hands spread out, his eyes open wide. "Out cold for a few minutes. Black ice it was. The Captain thought it best you take a look at him." He grabbed his companion by the arm and shook the slightly dazed man. "Louis, tell the healer!" he enunciated loudly. Ava shrewdly stepped between them.

"It's quite alright, I can take it from here."

She admitted him for a concussion.

A representative from Hercinia had been rushed in, complaining of pain in her chest.

"I think it's my heart," she explained breathlessly. Ava examined her, noting the swelling in her ankles, and ran to her satchel, taking out two vials and a packet of salts. After she'd medicated the woman, she sat beside her on the cot, her hand on her chest, magic flowing from her palm and fingertips, until she could sense a strong, steady, regular pulse. She'd distracted the woman with casual conversation on Hercinia and questions about the fabled Circle of Magi at nearby Ostwick.

"I took the medicine my physician gave me, but it doesn't seem to have worked," the woman told her, discouragement in her voice.

"The Head Physician will see you soon. I think we may need to adjust your dosage," Ava comforted her. "Sometimes travel can stress the body," she explained, helping her settle in the cot.

That was followed by a ruckus at admitting.

"Hello? Hurting over here!" someone cried out crossly.

She hurried out to find two women— a petite blond, freckled elf, and a rotund, ruddy-faced brunette. The brunette held her hand up gingerly, her face stuck in a grimace.

"What happened here?" Ava rushed over, noticing some very swollen fingers. The elf approached her and launched into a narrative regarding the unfortunate circumstances of their evening:

"Me and Henny here thought we'd have some fun at the party- real fun, not some poncy lord's idea of fun, yeah? We went in the cloak room and switched the cloaks and hats around so they'd be all—'What, that's not mine! Give it back! Give it back!' " She acted the scene out humorously, her arms flying about her. "But then we heard someone coming and we hid in the armoire…and that's when it all went tits up."

"You slammed the door on my hand!" Henny wailed indignantly.

"I did say 'All in!'" the elf said with exasperation.

One of the fingers, Ava concluded, was sprained. She wrapped and splinted her middle finger, and after laying her hands over the bruised area to reduce the swelling and administering some medicine for the discomfort, gave her instructions on how to treat the injury.

"Great, Sera," Henny turned to her friend in a sulking tone. "I won't be able to do my work in the kitchen properly. Lionor is going to kill me…"

"Oh, stop with the sobby face," she retorted. "I'll help you, alright?"

Henny lifted the bandaged hand, the wrapped finger much more prominent.

"Are you flipping me off?" Sera asked, with a wild glint in her eyes. Henny glanced down at her hand for a moment, somewhat confused. "That is brilliant, innit?" she continued with excitement. " Everyone will be asking 'How's your hand?' And you can just go like this and flip them off— and can't get in trouble because: it's just little messed up fingers!" she laughed delightedly.

Ava stepped away grinning as the two erupted in rambunctious laughter when Henny raised her offensive hand mischievously at a bewildered man leaving the infirmary. She almost bumped into Olivier, one of the Head Physician's apprentices.

"I came to see if you needed any help, but it seems you have things under control," he complimented her. "So are you here to get an early start because of the upcoming changes to the dispensary?" he wondered.

Ava froze halfway to taking her seat at the admitting desk.

"What changes?" she asked.

Olivier seemed genuinely flustered.

"I thought…For sure…Didn't Adan tell you already?" he babbled.

"Tell me what?" she implored, her heart sinking.


	20. Chapter 20

"Life must go on; I forget just why."

~ Edna St. Vincent Millay

* * *

_This will be a good change. A change of pace, of venue, of…airs._

Adan smirked at the irony.

_Airs._

_Indeed._

He contemplated the gloomy room, the candle nub close to burning out. Turning his head to the right of his pillow, he gazed upon the freshly inked letter over the quilt, waiting to be delivered the next morning, formalizing his request to accompany the company of soldiers going off to the Western Approach to build over the sulphur pits. He was certain he could find a way to help neutralize the toxic fumes in smaller areas, in more contained locations, to allow the laborers to work in the region. Even if he couldn't neutralize the fumes, he thought, crossing his arms behind his head, he knew the antidote to remedy the sulphur poisoning. It was an opportunity for him to help, to be of value. The Seeker had, at first, hesitated to approve his request, but he assured her the infirmary and dispensary would be fine without him. He'd vowed that his apprentice would assist with healing and could run the dispensary until further arrangements were made.

At some point he knew he would have to speak to Ava. It was the one thing he was avoiding doing, even though he still had two weeks before taking off. He did feel ashamed of his hesitation, but he dreaded the thought of standing before her to bid her farewell. He anticipated one of two possible reactions: she'd either be furious at him for dumping so much work on her, or she would be indifferent.

While neither option was pleasant, he feared the second one much more.

 _Coward_ , he thought.  _As if there were any doubts you don't deserve her, this just about proves it_.

The candle finally sputtered, immersing him in a solitary darkness. He folded his hands over his stomach and closed his eyes in a futile effort to fall asleep.

She haunted his thoughts. All he could see was her: the way her hair caught the sunlight, how her lips parted when she smiled, the lighthearted undertones in her voice when she scolded or teased him. How could he ever forget the day she introduced herself? He'd already written her off, as none of his apprentices managed to last very long. They were intimidated by him, flustered by his preciseness, rendered dumb by his knowledge. A few derogatory comments, some unkind observations, and they would be crestfallen. They'd beat a hasty retreat in shame and his reputation as the greatest and most acerbic alchemist kept everyone at bay.

She had burst into his life dragging a large sack filled with her belongings into the dispensary, freshly arrived from the Free Marches. He'd stood behind his counter observing her with a mix of impatience and disapproval.

 _This one won't last the week,_ he'd guessed.

And then she had looked up at him with those eyes, filled with spirit, and said, "Won't you give me a hand? It's what civilized people do, you know?"

Part of him had wanted to remind her who he was, of how fortunate she was to have been granted an apprenticeship under his tutelage. He'd wanted to point out that she had been offered the position not because of her brilliance— she wasn't a remarkably skilled mage, nor had she been a particularly gifted student at her Circle— but because the Inquisition needed help anywhere it could get it from, especially after Haven. Another part of him, however, lowered his eyes almost meekly and awkwardly stepped forth to help her with her belongings.

He'd tried so hard to convince her to leave—to run. But when he criticized how her abilities were lacking, she would turn to him in feisty anger and blame him instead.

"Aren't you the master? Then..master away!" She'd cross her arms defiantly, making him repeat and explain things over and over.

He'd watched her struggle and fail many times. Seen her become frustrated and irritated. But he had never seen her at the verge of quitting. It was the opposite. She had a tenacious will. She celebrated every single triumph, no matter how big or small: the first elixirs made without consulting her book of formulas, an accurate diagnosis, the gratitude of a patient she had tended to. Everything was a sign pointing upwards.

One morning he'd arrived at the dispensary and noticed they moved about each other in an easy, familiar dance—a well-worn routine. From the tea she knew to place before him just as he'd begin feeling the effects of another night spent wide awake, to the wordless cues they effortlessly picked up from each other in the presence of patients, orderlies, and physicians.

"Seems like things worked out with the apprentice, right Adan?" someone had congratulated him.

When he realized it, he had avoided the dispensary for three days, confused and uneasy. When he returned at last, she had crossly showered all the prescriptions awaiting him over his head, ribbed him as if he were just…

_A man._

Not a great alchemist, revered scholar, reputed healer and apothecary. Just a man. He'd tentatively tease her back, playfully slapping her hand away when she'd try to intrude on his work, purposefully grasping her shoulders and turning her around towards the door with orders to go run an errand somewhere anytime she was being stubborn, or stepping away to read in front of the fire, leaving her behind the counter to prepare the most tedious part of a recipe just to have the pleasure of hearing her comically curse him. When introducing her, she was always 'Ava, my apprentice.'

_The only 'my' she'll ever be in this life._

He'd been happy those months.

 _I wouldn't change a thing_ , he knew.

He'd liked who he was by her side.

 _A better man_ , he thought.

 _But not good enough_ , he realized sadly.

He had no doubt she would become a formidable healer—  _If she studies properly, that is_ , he amended with a bittersweet grin. He would write her a recommendation assuring her an apprenticeship anywhere she wanted.

She was sunshine—warm, and radiant, and full of life.

_Always shine brightly, my dearest Ava._

She would never imagine how infinitely he'd miss her.


	21. Chapter 21

"One must always forgive another's passion."

 _South of Broad_  ~ Pat Conroy

* * *

Evelyn sat behind her desk across from her spymaster, who was sorting through a small pile of reports and newly arrived correspondence.

"What would be the repercussions if we sent a team to rescue our agent?"

"The message stated that she could maintain her cover for a bit longer, but not much more. Maybe one or two more days. I know that she probably wants to leave undetected, otherwise it would compromise the mission and, possibly, other agents."

"Then let's go with the option of creating a diversion." Evelyn rested her chin over her clasped hands. "A distraction— to give her an opportunity to escape."

"I like that much more," the spymaster concurred, pulling out another note from her pile. "Too much effort has gone into gathering the information."

"And once she's back safely…"

Leliana looked up at her quizzically.

"I'd like to meet her. We give all sorts of commendations and medals to the guards and soldiers, hold formal ceremonies—yet, the agents who accomplish so much, face danger constantly... they're unsung heroes," she pointed out.

Leliana grinned.

"We rely on anonymity, but your recognition will be deeply appreciated."

She raised the note she'd earmarked to Evelyn's eye level.

"Sera regrets she will not be going to Halamshiral." She slid the note across the desk. "She wrote this to inform me that she has to stay behind to assist a scullery maid who suffered an injury earlier this week."

"I'm not going to force the issue," Evelyn sighed.

"It's a shame," Leliana continued spryly. "I know you were counting on causing quite the 'frisson' at court. Imagine a mage Inquisitor, accompanied by a Qunari—"

"Bull dropped out early! Decided the Chargers needed him in their next mission—which they haven't even been given yet," she grumbled.

"An elf—"

"Either one would have been welcome. Neither one wants to attend," she shrugged.

"And a Tevinter—"

"Thankfully, Dorian's still going. He told me, 'The desire to vex the Royan court is stronger than any instinct of self-preservation.'"

"He'll fit in more than he knows…" Leliana remarked cannily. "Look carefully: the note has a complete drawing of the maid's mishap," she added with a hint of mischief in her eyes, pointing to the bottom of the hastily scribbled note.

A crude drawing of a hand with an abnormally large middle finger dominated the lower half of the page. An arrow labeled "Injury" pointed at it. Evelyn shook her head and snorted, passing the note back to Leliana.

"Do you keep all of these?"

"I do...Someday they may make sense." She tucked it among her papers.

"One more invitation…" Evelyn slumped back in her chair. "Do you think Vivienne…?"

"She is away on personal business—the Duke has taken a turn for the worse recently— but I don't think she would be a wise choice, given her connection to the empress and the Council of Heralds. The court may bristle at the impression Vivienne helped pen a skewed political agenda—"

"Ironically, I do have a political agenda..." Evelyn smirked.

"No need to flaunt it, though." Leliana slipped the messages into a larger folder. "Especially since we don't want to tip off any Venatori operatives as to our intentions before then…"

"The tailor is going to be livid...All these changes to our guest roster."

"There are still two weeks, though. Who is going so far?"

"You, me, Cullen, Josephine, Varric, Dorian…Why don't we ask Cassandra?"

"She was planning on being on the ground with our troops, just in case."

"Cullen can delegate the task to someone else—I'd rather she were inside, keeping a trained eye on any suspicious activity."

"She's not going to be happy…"

"Ask her to report to the tailor today so he can take her measurements. As Sera would say, 'We're going to be all matchy-matchy!' " Evelyn teased.

"I'm just intrigued that you are having me do the dirty deed…" she shot her a reproachful but amused look.

"I like to abuse my powers once in a while." Evelyn chuckled, taking a sip of her already cold tea.

Leliana smiled slyly as she reached down into the diplomatic courier satchel on the ground, by the chair.

"There is also one more thing." She pulled out a thick velvet pouch. "This arrived for Josie earlier this morning. She wanted you to have it right away." Along with the pouch, she handed Evelyn a note in heavy cream-colored stationery.

_"Ambassador Montilyet,_

_It is rare to hear of those in Orlais treating spirits as anything other than beasts to kill, and rarer still for anyone to care enough for one to help them. I have given the amulet to your people freely, in hopes that the Inquisition will continue this open-minded approach. We wish you luck in healing the sky, whose rifts have damaged the Fade even in Rivain._

_Yours in peace,_

_Lady Annamaria of Dairsmuid"_

Evelyn's eyes peered back in surprise at Leliana.

"She did it!"

She quickly rose from behind the desk.

"Can we continue this later?" she asked apologetically.

Leliana folded her hands over her lap with an expression of satisfaction.

"We're all done for now. I saved the amulet for last; I knew you'd want to be out the door the second I gave you this…"

Evelyn scanned the room for her boots while buttoning up her collar.

"You are most definitely worthy of your title, dear spymaster!"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I took a little freedom with the note that is provided in game. The text actually reads, "We wish you luck in healing the sky, whose rifts have damaged the Fade even *here* in Rivain." I remember the mission to find the amulet could be undertaken on the War Table on the Ferelden side, so that might have confused me (among many, many other things...*sigh*)...and I decided Rivain is just too darn far away and we have lots of stuff to do!...


	22. Chapter 22

"I feel as if I were a piece in a game of chess, when my opponent says of it: That piece cannot be moved."

~ Søren Kierkegaard

* * *

Misty, opaque cobwebs crisscrossed the walls and railings in the tavern's attic. Evelyn raked her hands before her, brushing them aside. She hadn't been up there since the early days, when everyone seemed scared and suspicious of Cole. The attic room was his roost: close to daily life and activity, yet quiet and remote enough from constant intrusions. She approached a dim corner of the room where several storage barrels sat and uttered his name a couple of times, but except for drafts agitating dangling wisps of webs, nothing emerged. Most of the time he appeared immediately. On occasion, she'd had to coax him out of hiding. And sometimes she had to remain perfectly still until her awareness shifted, as if she were dreaming while awake, almost in a trancelike state. She minded her breath and allowed her mind to drift over the room's stillness. As the air began to waver and her skin prickle, a dingy, blackened torch burst into brilliant flame, lighting the shadowy attic.

" 'The,' a joke, he laughs to himself, imagining herds of cattle in fields of iron, but now he worries it fits," Cole told her earnestly, materializing before her eyes, wringing his hands. She listened, piecing the words together as best she could.

 _Is he talking about Bull?_ she wondered, approaching him with the velvet pouch.

She had crossed the Qunari sitting at one of the tavern's tables with a few of the Chargers earlier, on her way up the creaky stairs. She'd found him watchfully appraising the morning activity unfolding around them: a few patrons lingered over empty cups and half eaten toast, avoiding for as long as possible whatever duties awaited them while the harried staff transported stacks of dishes into the kitchen. The stale odor of burned sausages and bacon hung thickly around the smokey room. She had greeted him and his team and he'd countered with a gruff "Nice to see you, boss."

"I found the amulet that Solas told us about! Would you like to try it on?" she offered Cole the soft pouch.

 _Boyish and towheaded._  Evelyn felt a rush of affection for him overcome her.  _You and I:_  w _e are not what others expect, are we? I need you to be well, Cole._

"Yes!" he told her with contained enthusiasm. For a moment she did not know if he had been responding to her thoughts, as he was wont to do, or if he was reacting to the gift. "But not here," he cautioned, glancing about the room. "I like it here. We need someplace that can go away if it becomes sharp."

* * *

Varric was distracted by the brief tap on his shoulder as he was about to conclude a short meeting with a few dwarven traders.

"Cole's package has arrived," Evelyn said in passing, halting expectantly at the doorway Cole had disappeared through.

"I'll be right there," he acknowledged, turning back to the group.

In the tower room, Cole loosened the thin pouch strings, spilling the heavy silver amulet into his palm.

"What do I do with it?"

He approached Solas, who turned halfway from his writing desk and pushed the book he had been reading away.

"You found one of the amulets!" he marveled. "Excellent!"

He walked up to meet them at the center of the stony, quiet tower room. He glanced at the amulet."

"May I?"

Cole slipped it onto his hand wordlessly. Solas examined the amulet thoughtfully, turning it around and running his fingers over its surface.

"It's simple enough," he informed them. "You put it on, I charge it with magic, and you should be protected."

Evelyn studied him.

"Are you ready Cole?"

His face remained concealed beneath his hat, somewhat downcast. She couldn't tell if he was nodding or simply punctuating his thoughts.

"They can't make me a monster."

He peered up again, an obstinate tone in his voice. Solas silently fastened the amulet to Cole's chest, a pale glow emanating from his fingertips. Evelyn could sense the magic ripple through the room, a numbing tingle rushing over her skin like a gust of cool wind, the air around them vibrating with a surge of energy. Solas closed his eyes in rapt concentration while Cole observed, only the lower half of his impassive face visible to her. He removed his hand from the amulet, which appeared to have become embedded in the fabric of Cole's shirt. She remembered how Cole had expressed surprise over Cullen removing his armor during a particularly rowdy game of Wicked Grace. "It comes off!" she remembered him stating, mesmerized by the fact. His shirt, with its frayed sleeves, hem and worn shoulder padding, appeared to be a constant part of the form Cole had conjured. The spell Solas conjured recalled the echoes of a stormy sky, light scattering between patches of darkness emanating from him and flowing in the direction of the amulet. The pulse of light rushed forward steadily until Cole unexpectedly stumbled backwards, shouting out in pain. She started towards him just as Varric wandered into the room.

"What was that?" he asked suspiciously.

One glance in Solas' direction and his brows furrowed crossly.

"Oh, for…What are you doing to the Kid?"

Cole whirled around, readjusting his hat over his head.

"Stopping blood mages from binding me like the demons at Adamant," he explained."But it didn't work."

Solas opened and closed his fist.

"Something is interfering with the enchantment," he concluded.

"Something like…Cole not being a demon?" Varric crossed his arms petulantly.

Evelyn caught the flash of irritability over Solas' serious countenance.

"Cole might look like us, Varric, but he's not human," she attempted to remind him.

Varric balked.

"Neither am I," he reasoned. "Neither is Chuckles here."

She was about to point out that he was being too literal when Solas intervened.

"Regardless of Cole's special circumstances, he remains a spirit," Solas insisted.

"Yes!" Varric interjected. "A spirit who is strangely like a person!,"

Cole turned from them, disappointment and frustration evident in the manner he skulked away.

"I don't matter!" he protested. "Just lock away the parts of me that someone else could knot together to make me follow."

Solas followed him.

 _I have seldom seen Solas express this much concern_ , she thought, finding the elf's expression gentler than his usual one.

"Focus on the amulet," he encouraged him. "Tell me what you feel."

Cole stood still and appeared to be listening acutely, his head turning slightly to and fro.

"Warm…Soft blanket covering, but it catches, tears, I'm the wrong shape, there's something…" he voice surged with emotion.

He paused and raised his head, turning his body to one of the tower doors. He raised his arm and pointed.

"There. That way."

They all stood in conflicted silence, staring in the direction he'd indicated.

"We'll find whatever is preventing the amulet from working, and we'll make it right," she announced at last.

Varric nodded.

"Alright, Kid. Get Cullen and work with him on the map to figure out where you're sensing something wrong."

Cole stared back at them.

"Will you come with me? All of you?" he asked with disarming candor.

"Sure," Varric confirmed.

Apparently mollified, Cole surveyed the room one last time before leaving their company. As soon as they could no longer hear his footsteps, Varric turned to Solas. The resentment in his voice was barely contained.

"Alright. I get it. You like spirits." He took a few steps towards him. "But he came into this world to be a person. Let him be one," he entreated him.

"Cole is a demon…"  _No, that's not it either,_ she struggled to explain. Demons embodied the worst characteristics of human nature. Cole was nothing but considerate and caring. Hardly a demonic trait. "…Or a spirit," she amended. "He has magical abilities and magical vulnerabilities. We cannot ignore that," she pointed out.

"Fair enough," he conceded. "But that ritual of theirs only works on demons, right?"

Solas contemplated him worriedly.

"This is not some fanciful story, child of the stone! We cannot change our nature by wishing," he noted fervently.

"You don't think?" Varric cocked his head.

Solas appeared to be lost in thought for a moment before replying.

"However we deal with the problem, our next step is to track down whatever is interfering with the enchantment," he stated definitively.

"When do we depart?" Varric asked her.

"As soon as we can." She self-consciously found her fingertips tracing her injury.

 _A horse ride will be out of the question…but perhaps a carriage ride…_   _That could be wrangled into counting as light activity,_  she plotted. Cullen would not want her to go without medical approval, Leliana would demand she have a proper security detail, and Josephine would be a wreck if she went off on a mission so close to the royal ball. It was going to take some clever negotiating and perhaps some unflinching arguing.

 _Well,_ she surmised _, if there's one skill I've been honing since getting here, it's my ability to go against conventional wisdom._


	23. Chapter 23

"When the final result is expected to be a compromise, it is often prudent to start from an extreme position."

 _The Economic Consequences of the Peace_  ~ John Maynard Keynes

* * *

 

"It's north of Halamshiral, off the Imperial Highway," Cullen insisted. "We can make the stop when we go to the Winter Palace."

He cut a dramatic figure, Evelyn noticed, as he leaned over the War Table, his hands splayed over Ferelden and Orlais.

"I'm departing tomorrow." Evelyn crossed her arms. The decision was final.

"It doesn't make sense! You are going to waste several days going and returning, only to depart almost immediately once you get back!"

They had been having same runaround argument since Cullen had pointed out the location Cole had indicated on the map to her earlier.

"You are recovering from an injury— the last thing you should be doing is riding a horse on uneven terrain," he pointed out.

"First, I will ride in the carriage. Second, I will not be fussed over. I am not irresponsible or impulsive!" she said, frustrated.

"First," he mimicked her, equally frustrated, "a carriage with the Inquisition's heraldry might as well be a beacon calling out to all highwaymen—or worse, Venatori— over some very isolated stretches of road. Second—"

"A carriage filled with Solas, Varric, Cole, and myself!" she swiftly interrupted. "I almost feel a bit sorry for the foolish attackers who try to ambush us! We're hardly a caravan of grandmotherly dowagers, Cullen!"

"Will you let me finish?" he asked her, exasperated. She pressed her lips. "I was going to say I never meant to imply that I do not find you capable of making such decisions, nor was I fussing over you. I trust your judgment. I am merely doing my job— the duty entrusted to me as your advisor."

"And I've heard your advice, and appreciate it, but I need to resolve this matter as soon as possible," she said in a curt, formal tone.

"Permission to speak freely, Inquisitor," he requested with great ceremony.

Evelyn grimaced. They weren't getting anywhere.

"Go ahead, Commander," she arched a wary eyebrow.

"You're going to make me ill with worry," he exhaled. "You are still in pain, you are vulnerable—I don't like it," he said gently.

To his surprise, she walked away wordlessly, headed for the doorway. He thought for a moment she was going to march off in a huff, but instead she peeked outside into the hallway and then shut the door to the War Room quietly. She approached him, and lifting a hand to his cheek, delicately kissed him.

"Have a little faith, Commander." She encircled his neck with her arms. He embraced her waist, tugging her closer to him.

"You know I count myself among the faithful," he murmured softly, in her ear. "It's the only way I can bear watching the woman I love hurl herself into precipices and time rifts…"

She felt a tingle run up her neck.

"Then a compromise," she offered appeasingly, peering into his warm light brown eyes.

"I'm listening," he said.

"An unmarked carriage…a small detail— two soldiers riding ahead, two behind."

He took a troubled breath and she waited for him to respond, observing him as he pondered her words.

"That would be better," he admitted. "I still don't like this trip at all… But they're adequate precautions."

"Then I'll let the others know about tomorrow."

"A day—or two. I need to check on something first: Leliana had requisitioned the unmarked carriage for an operative of hers."

"Fine," she agreed.

He stared at her, relief visible in his expression.

 _Everything outside that door pulls at us, demanding our attention—always so much to attend to,_ she realized sadly.  _There's never enough time._

"Permission to speak freely, Commander," she stated in her stiffest impersonation of a soldier.

He chuckled lightly.

"Granted."

"I love you, too," she whispered tenderly.


	24. Chapter 24

You are a splendid butterfly

It is your wings that make you beautiful

And I could make you fly away

But I could never make you stay

"All My Little Words" ~ The Magnetic Fields

* * *

_It's like walking on a boat bobbing on the waves._

Ava felt woozy after her long shift; her legs were heavy and her head aching as she trudged back to the dispensary.

_Maker, I am so tired. How much sleep have I had in the last few days?_

In less than a few hours the orderlies would begin their tiresome pilgrimage, knocking on her door, calling out to her. Not to mention the orders already tucked away in her satchel.

And yet, it wouldn't be all unwelcome this time: the exhaustion, the late nights at the infirmary, the busy chatter around her. They helped distract her.

She wondered guiltily if her motives for wanting to assist at the infirmary were as altruistic as people surrounding her wanted to believe. She had flung herself into her work as if it were the only thing keeping her from becoming unhinged. Events beyond her control had already been set into motion, and she had to keep her head above the waves, she repeated to herself. Adan had not shown up. Rumor had it he'd sequestered himself at the armory, too busy conducting experiments and expounding on theories on alchemical reactions likely to dissipate sulfurous gases, to grace the infirmary or the dispensary with his presence.

It made her angry how eager he was to flee his existence as an apothecary. She realized, with needling irritation, that he had probably leapt at the opportunity the moment it had been dangled before his face.

 _He likely seized at it without a second thought_ , she thought.

 _Without a second thought to what? And why should he? He's not a frivolous man. He is focused and determined. The only one nurturing foolishness was you, Ava,_ she scolded herself.  _He can move on because he was never here in his mind…or heart._

She skid and teetered over a slippery patch of ice. A firm hand gripped her elbow as she attempted to regain her footing.

 _As if from thin air,_ she turned bewildered.

She beheld Cole's comforting face before her.

"Cole!" she whispered gladly. "I have been wondering how you were doing ever since that night!" she told him, readjusting her satchel's strap.

Cole fell into step beside her.

"I am, but not as I was, and I don't know what'll be."

Ava listened and then grinned.

"Is it a riddle?"

"No!" he said, surprised. "A truth."

"The truth about all of us, I'd say," she sighed.

He peered at her curiously.

"Lock it away, don't look—if I can't see it, it doesn't exist," he said. She stared ahead and continued walking.

"I'll be fine," she told him, looking over her shoulder.

"How?" Cole asked.

_It rips and tears._

"You wish it wasn't so, but it is and what do you make of it, before it makes something of you?" he wondered, genuinely intrigued.

She finally turned to him when they reached the door to the dispensary. She appeared absorbed in thought.

"Show me," he implored.

 _The trail she'd already walked_ ,  _I could step into the tracks,_   _to guide me_ , he thought.  _Do as we do_ , he remembered Evelyn telling him.

"I don't know…I think I am in the dark as well. I don't know how long I can keep this up for," she admitted.

_The anchors break in the heaving swell, caught in the undertow, buoys listing in the storm tossed sea. It may just be the incoming tide, but for the shore, it is the end of the world._

He waited for a sign from her, almost beseechingly, she realized.  _What do I know of the affairs of spirits?_ she argued to herself.

_But I know pain and sadness when it presents itself._

An idea took hold of her thoughts. "I can show you," she agreed. "We can try. Together," she smiled.

* * *

"Put your hand here!" Ava cried anxiously. "And press down!"

Cole leapt to her side, bewildered.

_It leaks and oozes, burst pipes, who can stem the rain—_

"Cole, pay attention!" she called to him. "I need to get someone! Press down!" she ordered, nervously, searching for something in the room. "Press down, Cole! Mean it!"

"Is it bad?" the groggy man groaned, trying to see what the commotion was over.

"No, but  _you_  are," she said crossly. "You aren't supposed to scratch and tug at the sutures!"

The man moaned, she didn't know if out of regret or discomfort. She scurried out into the dimly lit hall of the infirmary, searching for one of the physicians.

"You'll be lucky if you don't get an infection." Her complaint traveled in from the hallway as her boots drummed over the smooth floor.

The man examined Cole.

"She gets mad at me. It seems I am here all the time," he sighed glumly.

"You are getting better," Cole said, both arms extended as he held the pile of gauze and cloth over his abdomen in place.

"I'm bleeding," he retorted with a cynical smirk.

"No—that is getting better too, but I meant you. The skill will match the fearlessness. Someday," Cole told him. The man glanced up at him sheepishly. "He would have died if you hadn't stepped in. The others cowered, all knew they were outmatched, but it didn't matter to you. 'Not here, not again, Andraste guide my sword—'" Cole recalled the man evoking the words before the battle that had landed him in the infirmary. The man's eyes watered.

"I like you," he smiled faintly, crinkling his nose between the pangs of discomfort.

"I don't," he stated gravely. "Me, I mean. Not like this. But I like you, too."

Cole appeared distracted, as if listening attentively. "He comes, salve in hand, it will sting and pull, but Ava will relent in the end—she always does."

"Pudding?" the man whispered with hopeful enthusiasm.

Cole glanced at the doorway and nodded conspiratorially.

"Ah!" He pursed his lips, lying back into his pillow. He could almost savor it.

 _Dizzying, all facets capture the light,_  Cole noticed.  _From the pain, the fear, the expectation, and remorse, all flowing along, between, beside, silken and curling within innards and entrails._ He surmised it made sense when they talked about 'having the guts,' or 'taking heart' anytime it came to feelings and courage: everything had to fit in the same space, somehow.


	25. Chapter 25

"By saying 'Love' you let loose all the angels and demons that were asleep within the bowels of mankind. "Love" is not, as you think, a simple, tranquil word. Within it lie armies being massacred, burning cities, and much blood."

 _The Last Temptation of Christ_  ~ Nikos Kazantzakis

* * *

 

"Ah!" Ava stretched. "I could sleep into next week!" she told Cole.

 _Another dawn. Another day to get through._  When all was perfectly still, the feeling crept up on her, startling her as to its sharpness. She cast her eyes down.

"Even the thickest wool can't make winter spring," Cole began. She glanced up again, her lashes tear-struck. "Do you wish to forget?" It was a sincere question, rather than an offer. She tilted her head. "I can help people forget when the pain is too great."

"My pain isn't too great," she clarified. "It isn't pleasant…and it probably won't leave me alone for a while…I might even feel pangs if reminded of this someday. But I wouldn't want to forget."

"Why?"

"I don't know," she told him, making her way up the stairs to the crenelated ramparts. "So that I don't make the same mistake again? So I know to avoid certain situations…people?" She thought of Adan. If she forgot him, would she do it as easily as he had seemed to have forgotten her? "Sometimes that pain is bitter, but healing medicine.

"Is it for you?" he asked, following her down a quiet stretch along the ramparts. She dusted a sprinkle of snow off a spot on the ground and sat down, her back leaning against the wall. She signaled Cole to settle beside her. Reaching into her satchel, she pulled out a bundle bound in white cheesecloth. Cole saw she had unpacked a small loaf of bread.

"The pain is just there. It just is. It is up to people to make something of it. Some do. Some don't." She tore at the loaf with her fingers, pulling at the crust before offering him a piece. "You can see the best sunrises from here," she indicated to him, shaking her piece of bread towards the greyish sky. He held on to his bit of bread, feeling the roughness of the smooth baked crust and the light brown sponginess of its innards.

"What will happen to you?"

She looked at him with a determined expression.

"I've made a decision."

 _Stalwart thoughts, bright and brave, they come to her aid and defense, she has summoned them and they've rallied_ , he understood.

"I have filed my request to be trained as a physician as well as complete my studies as apothecary."

 _I can help wherever I go, will be needed anywhere I am,_ she assured herself.

"You seek purpose" he said.

"Or meaning," she added.

"Do you find it bad that I can help people forget?"

She munched on her hunk of bread, eyes trained on the horizon, a radiant golden glow irradiating across the mountain peaks, scattering the inky remnants of night.

"We, healers, are trained to understand pain as a warning. The body is talking to you, asking you to listen. Something is broken, not working properly, and needs attention. We learn to think of pain as a helpful friend. 'Where does it hurt?' and we are grateful when the path is a clear one and we can prevent more damage. Imagine that without that pain, we'd be unaware of our bodies' ailments," she explained. "A burn stings and pulses, but it tells you the skin cannot take the heat. Pain asks us to be mindful, and kind, and demands that we stop, slow down, pay attention."

Three black-feathered birds, their plumage oily and slick, alighted on the roof over the machicolated passage she and Cole had crossed. He stared at their curious stony eyes as they engaged in an odd little dance, wings flapping and beaks cawing roughly into the brisk morning.

"At times, though, the body is too broken," she stated. "There can be no salvaging after the damage has been wrought, and then…the pain is more than a warning…it's a lament. It is perhaps a consequence of being mortal," she concluded. "All we can do in those cases is give comfort. We sedate, we numb…we keep old friends- the body and the mind- apart." She espied the birds, their heads eagerly bobbing from side to side as they observed them both. She tore another hunk of bread and shredded it into smaller pieces, which she cast on the ground in front of them. A cloud of wings beat down onto the stony ground and they both sat quietly, watching the birds peck at the pieces of bread. "I think some hurts are too great to heal by the means we currently have. I know that is definitely true of the ailments of the body…I can imagine it is true of the ailments of the mind, too."

She smiled as two of the birds faced off over the last breadcrumb just as the third dashed forward and stole it. Cole imitated her and threw his crumbled hunk of bread to the birds.

"You and I aren't that different, you know?" she told him, turning her head to meet his observant gaze. "We both care for others. We are at our best when we are honoring that part of us. I wish…" she hesitated, "I was more like you."

 _It bursts into bloom, an unexpected reprieve, a hint of impossible spring in the heart of winter. A strange sensation,_ he realized, not completely at ease.

"Knowing you are here, among us, and that we are both trying to help others the best we can…It gives me great comfort."

_Strange. I think the same of her. A reflection, complimentary opposites._

"Sometimes, " she continued conspiratorially, "when something is particularly hopeless, when a prognosis is grim, I hope you will take over where I cannot go. That those who suffer will not be alone or frightened when they can no longer hear my words or feel my touch. All my life I was taught that anything that slipped through the Fade only sought to destroy us. When I underwent my Harrowing, I was terrified. I did not even gaze upon the demon that came to me, would not engage it in conversation, so determined I was to avoid any temptation. My teachers told me I awoke screaming." She turned the thick lyrium-infused silver band around her finger, absorbed in the memory. "And yet, the dreams I've had, Cole…I cannot believe the Fade to be as evil as I've been told it is. After all, this world is a wicked place, but we still can find great courage, kindness, and beauty. It must be true of the Fade, as well. And if it is true of the Fade, then we, mages, aren't the harbingers of evil many would make us out to be. You are good. You give me hope. You give me faith."

She quietly rose and the birds hopped away from her, suspicious of her proximity, but relented once she shook the cloth of the last breadcrumbs before wrapping her loaf and tucking it back into her satchel.

"I leave tomorrow," he told her abruptly.

A pained look flashed across her eyes briefly.

"Will you be gone long?" she wondered.

"No, but I don't know what will return and what will be gone."

He would have reached for her hand just then. It struck him as an appropriate gesture, but Adan was there, a ghostly presence, alternately shimmering and weighing in her thoughts and he did not know if he would be welcome. It troubled him: doubt was not something familiar. Hesitation wasn't, either.

It all came down to one thing: love, he understood. It was at the heart of everything: the devout, fervently reciting the Chant of Light, the covetous scholar yearning for forbidden wisdom, or the starry eyed dreamer who architected a life with a beloved. In the name of love, Cole had seen, people committed grand gestures—sometimes valorous, selfless, and touching. In the name of love, he also realized, armies had been raised and great atrocities justified.

Love was a blessing or a curse, depending on the master it served.

_It soars; it buries._

_If I still were like myself of before, what would I say to this me, now?_

_I am not the me I should be._

He did not like it.

* * *

 

Adan scanned the sparse room. He'd packed almost everything, except for a few essentials he would be carrying with him. The books and most of his equipment: phials, tongs, alambics, and crucibles had all been carefully packed away. He'd been allowed to store his belongings in one of the abandoned cells of the mages' quarters, leaving the keys with a colleague from the armory, who'd await further instructions on what to do with them. He stripped the bed down to its straw mattress and placed his bedroll over it. The bed had always felt lumpy and uncomfortable, but then again, he suspected sleep would elude him regardless of his accommodations. On the nightstand two books remained stacked. One was a treatise on alchemical transmutations involving air-based spells—essential, he knew, to the work he was attempting to accomplish in the Western Approach. The other was a book he had carried with him over many years. The leather cover had been gouged and scratched, the spine cracked and brittle, and the pages yellowed. It was his personal copy of his first apothecary's manual. Inside were all his notes, all his observations, everything he had learned and gathered, etched out along the margins: adaptations of older recipes, suitable substitutions, remedies most effective against different ailments. He knew it by heart. He'd paused when pulling it off his shelf, unable to pack it away.

 _I'll give it to Ava before I leave_ , he thought.  _She could make good use of it,_  he imagined, stroking the cover wistfully.

As the day of his departure approached, he eyed the worn book uneasily. As long as the book remained, he still had an excuse; he could tell himself they had unconcluded business between them. Once he handed her the book, however, it would be all over. The book was a token allotting him a few precious moments with her. It was annoyingly contradictory to him that the one thing he yearned for the most was the one he wanted to do the least because it would likely never happen again.

At moments like those, he wished he were already far away from Skyhold, trekking across Orlais. He'd been warned by colleagues in both earnest and in jest that the Western Approach was a thankless, arid place. He'd have to contend with savage wildlife, the threat of dragons overhead, and lingering Darkspawn that eked forth from cracks in the rocks.

"It's a wretched, inhospitable place," he'd been told by those who'd completed tours of duty there.

 _No more than in here_ , he exhaled bitterly, tracing the alchemical symbol for lead over his heart with his finger.


	26. Chapter 26

"We are what we pretend to be, so we must be careful about what we pretend to be."  
 _Mother Night ~_ Kurt Vonnegut

* * *

"You're not going to try and wedge that in there, are you? It is crowded inside as it is," Solas remarked to Varric.

"Bianca goes where I go."  _At least I committed to one of them_ , he concluded.

"It would be far more comfortable if you put your crossbow with the rest of the cargo," he insisted.

"Like you did with your staff?" Varric pointed at the slender staff, artful woodwork encapsulating a spherical crystal at the top.

"My staff is hardly cumbersome," the elf declared, trying to make it lean against the carriage's seat without slipping forward.

Varric had climbed up and was perched on the carriage's doorstep, positioning himself to enter.

"Are you insinuating Bianca is? Because if you are, you should know she doesn't take lightly to—"

He was interrupted by a light whack to the back of his head. Turning his head over his shoulder, he found himself eye level with the brim of Cole's impractical hat.

"Pack it or lose it, Kid," Varric pointed at him.

He noticed Cole's daggers were securely sheathed over his back. He frowned. Knowing Evelyn, she, too, would be bringing her staff.

It was going to be uncomfortably crowded.

"Hope this isn't a bumpy ride or we'll all end up impaling ourselves," he grumbled, watching Cole's hat become wedged between the threshold, preventing his entrance.

When Evelyn arrived, she balked.

"Cullen, this is tiny."

"It is deliberately so— it shouldn't draw attention."

"Or transport passengers!" she teased. "Are Leliana's operatives feisty young children these days?"

Cullen crossed his arms over his armored chest. He had an idea of where the argument was going.

"It might be better if I ride my horse—"

"Out of the question."

"But I can resume light activity now."

"Only you would think riding down the Frostback Mountains was 'light activity.'"

Varric peered out.

"Curly!" he called.

To Cullen's great irritation, he found himself looking up and responding to the nickname. "I can ride in front with the coachman. Solas, Cole, and I can take turns." Evelyn and Cullen exchanged glances considering the suggestion.

"That sounds reasonable to me," she agreed, trying to figure out if she could lay her staff down alongside the bottom of the overstuffed seat. Varric circled the carriage and securing his footing on the wheel, hauled himself up to the front bench beside the coachman, a dwarf he recognized from his forays into the stables.

"Varric Tethras," he nodded.

"Grurin Odar," he returned the greeting amiably. "I actually look forward to having some company," he grinned.

"Well, I can tell you right now, I'll be the best company out of the other two," Varric warned him, placing Bianca behind his legs.

Cullen watched the carriage pull out of the front gate and addressed the soldiers riding in their detail. They had allowed their charge to get a slight head start down the busy bridge.

"Stay close and remain watchful of unusual activity."

"Yes, Commander. We will travel on the main roads—it will add a few hours to the trip, but we won't be isolated."

Cullen pat the horse's rump vigorously and waved them off.

He felt the corner of his lips edge up into a small grin as he remembered the furtive kiss she had graced him with before her departure. She had left him with plenty to do, including briefing his second-in-command on the strategies and contingency plans for leading the battalion they would have to station near the Winter Palace. Evelyn had joked that his most daunting task while she was away would be convincing Cassandra to keep the appointment for her fitting at the tailor's atelier that afternoon.

_It's not too far from the truth_ , he sighed.

* * *

The ride had become easier once they descended the mountains and rode over flat ground. They overnighted at a small village north of the foot of the mountain, a few miles shy of the Imperial Highway. It had been a thankfully uneventful trip so far, she found, except for the bickering between Varric and Solas anytime Cole sat up front with the coachman. The argument had been over the usual: Cole. Both men argued passionately for what they believed was best for him.

"He's become more human because he is human!"

"Cole is a spirit. Any pretension otherwise would be unwise and dangerous. One cannot go against one's essence and nature without consequences."

"Being human is part of his nature."

"He looks human, but that doesn't mean he is—"

They kept interrupting each other, reacting to the same old statements. Evelyn had braced herself, a dull ache radiating over her torso. It didn't hurt as much as before, but she definitely felt sore. She realized it was almost time for another dose of her medicine and wished, at that particular moment, she could gulp it down with something stronger than water.

"I don't expect you to understand the subtle nature of spirits—"

"No offense taken," Varric spread his hands out annoyedly. "I know you are the resident expert and I often wonder myself if you are really among the realm of the living—"

"That's unnecessary!"

"I call it like I see it," Varric shrugged.

Evelyn inhaled deeply and tilted her head back, shutting her eyes, the carriage jostling rhythmically over the road.

_Maker…_

* * *

_Elven handiwork,_  Evelyn guessed, as they rode past two large stone sentinels: a woman wielding a bow and another woman, horns sprouting from her temples.

"Andruil and Ghilan'nain," Solas told them in a hushed voice.

They had reached a crossroads— further down from it sprawled a roadside trading post complete with makeshift docks in a picturesque inlet in the Waking Sea. It was an ideal place for merchants to meet before or after a Val Royeaux visit, she noted, glimpsing the various caravans transporting chests and barrels. Along the entrance to the inlet, smaller groups of soldiers, likely mercenaries hired by guilds, kept a watchful eye out for trouble. Dinghies launching off the coast with cloaked passengers made her wonder what kind of underhanded trades were unfolding around them. An old, rustic mill house sat farther down the hill alongside a brook swiftly running downwards to meet the sea, a large wheel turning with the rush of the water. That far down the mountain range the air felt warmer and the late afternoon sun made the sea shimmer in the distance.

"What's your business?" an armored guard asked the head of their detail.

"Just giving the horses a rest," he stated nonchalantly. The guard had given the carriage the once-over and after peering through the window, snickered. "Sounds like the beginning of a joke, doesn't it? A mage, an elf, and a dwarf…"

"I don't get paid to ask questions." He shrugged. "You know how it is."

"Aye. The trough is just at the foot of the hill," he indicated, pointing ahead. "The tavern serves dinner and is open until late, but doesn't rent rooms. If you need to overnight—"

"We won't be long. We need to reach our destination before nightfall," he explained, waving in thanks as they slowly rolled into the clearing the guard had directed them to. She, Varric, and Solas exited the carriage, taking in their surroundings.

"We'll meet back here in a half hour," Evelyn informed the coachman and the detail. Three people should guard the carriage and watch the horses at all times," she told them while glancing about her mistrustfully.

"Yes, In—" the soldier was cut off with a cautious look from his colleagues."—Deed!" the soldier quickly amended, to their relief.

"Ah, traders' crossroads! A cutthroat's delight," Varric chuckled. He pat his crossbow. "Bianca and I have so many fond memories…"

Solas watched Cole, who surveyed the area as if in a slight daze.

"Anything, Cole?"

He turned, seeking to follow an unheard beckoning. His legs carried him up a hill, in a strange trance, a certainty that was not his guiding him further. The others followed him closely, watching him climb the steep hill. As the hill crested, a large, imposing stone dragon sat in an endless vigil among the mundane detritus of everyday trade: stacks of lumber piled carelessly alone the edge of the hill, a few mossy slabs of stone, their ropes still tightly binding them, and broken crates littering the ground. Beneath the solitary dragon, two men appeared engaged in hushed negotiations. One was a dwarf in unidentified armor and the second was a dandyish sort, Evelyn found, in a turban and trimmed fleece lining the leatherwork over his mail amor. They caught the end of their conversation.

"Yea, this should get me through the month," the man had said gruffly.

The men were distracted by their approach. He had turned to meet their figures emerging over the hill. He raised his gloved hand to the dwarf.

"Give me a moment," he asked, before heading towards them. "Greetings," he called out dryly. "Can I help you?"

The dwarf slipped away.

"You," Cole rasped with an animosity she had never witnessed in him before.

She felt a shiver run down her spine and wordlessly gripped her staff. The man balked and in a blink, Cole had breached the distance between them, stepping out of a black cloud, marching towards him threateningly. In less than an instant, he had the man cowering on his knees, hands raised in a frightened cringe, held down by his forceful grip.

"You killed me!" Cole accused, his voice suffused with anger.

"What?" the man waved his hands defensively. "I don't…I don't even know you!" he argued, perplexed.

Upon closer inspection, Evelyn noticed threadbare spots on the man's clothing, missing fingers on his once-fine leather gloves. The pearl earring dangling from his ear must not have been worth much, or it would have been long gone by then.

"You forgot. You locked me in the dungeon, in the Spire, and you forgot, and I died in the dark!" Cole spat, as his eyes glistened darkly.

Evelyn watched Solas and Varric approach hurriedly.

"The Spire?" the man uttered slowly.

"Cole, stop," Solas ordered firmly.

At the sound of his voice, Cole released the man from his grasp. He scrambled onto his feet and scurried away, terrified.

Cole began to follow him, his steps heavy, his expression hardened, until Varric stepped onto his path.

"Just take it easy, Kid," he appealed.

"He killed me!" Cole shouted, his finger pointing in the direction the man had run off to. "He killed me. That's why it doesn't work. He killed me, and I have to kill him back!"

Evelyn's eyes widened.

"If he killed you…wouldn't you be dead?" she attempted to reason with him.

"Cole," Solas intervened again, "this man cannot have killed you. You are a spirit. You have not even possessed a body."

Cole turned away from them, his body taut and ready to spring forward.

"A broken body, bloody, banged on the stone cell, guts gripping in the dark dank, a captured apostate."

Evelyn's hand flew up to cover her mouth. He wasn't channeling nearby thoughts, she realized. He was  _remembering_.

_A captured apostate. Fewer things instilled as much fear in the hearts of people. Maker have mercy._

Cole continued shakily.

"They threw him into the dungeon in the Spire at Val Royeaux. They forgot about him."

Varric stared down solemnly.

"He starved to death."

She met with Solas' grave eyes and furrowed brow.

_A horrible, painful death,_  Evelyn thought.  _Inhumane_.

"I came through to help…and I couldn't," he confessed. "So I became him. Cole," he completed sadly.

_Such suffering would have rippled into the Fade. It always does— all the deep, intense feelings experienced here do that._

Varric addressed them warily.

"If Cole was an apostate, that'd make the guy we just saw a templar," he concluded. "Must've been buying lyrium."

"Let me kill him," Cole said, his voice tremulous with rage. "I need to…I need to."

Evelyn felt her heart tighten.  _This is dangerous. Cole is so close to igniting into something terrible, succumbing to this rage, to this grief. It will find an outlet, even if it consumes him._

Cole wandered off, his gaze affixed to a narrow dirt path.

"Solas?" she asked nervously.

"We cannot let Cole kill the man!" he said sternly.

"I don't think anyone was going to suggest that, Chuckles," Varric censured him.

"Cole is a spirit. The death of the real Cole wounded him, perverted him from his purpose. To regain that part of himself, he  _must_  forgive," Solas emphasized.

Varric grimaced skeptically.

"Come on! You don't just forgive someone  _killing you_."

" _You_  don't," Solas countered. "A spirit can."

"Varric?" Evelyn urged him to continue.

"The Kid's angry. He needs to work through it," he justified.

"A spirit does not work through emotions. It embodies them," Solas interrupted.

"But he isn't a spirit, is he? He made himself human, and humans change. They get hurt, and they heal." Varric paused, collecting his thoughts. "He needs to work it out as a person."

Solas remained undaunted.

"You would alter the essence of what he is?"

"He did that to himself when he left the Fade. I'm just helping him survive it," he concluded defiantly.

Evelyn raised both her hands in an attempt to appease them both.

"Before I decide anything, I need a clearer picture of what happened."

Solas nodded.

"It seems the real Cole was an apostate, captured and taken to the Circle by templars."

"Who aren't known for their gentle nature…" Varric observed.

"As the young man starved to death in a dungeon, his pain caught the attention of a spirit…Likely one of compassion."

Evelyn's eyes widened.

_Of course! He is sensitive to the pain evinced in others._

"Compassion?" Varric asked doubtfully.

"An uncommon spirit, certainly…And all too fragile, when its efforts to help proved to be in vain."

She raised her eyes towards Cole's figure, moving forwards in the near distance.

"There is only one way to resolve this," she declared, walking decisively towards him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A longer chapter mostly because it features so much dialogue from the game. I always feel like that's a little too easy, as much as I like to use these milestone scenes to keep my plots moving along.  
> I have to say, I've met some of the nicest, coolest people thanks to this story. Thank you for your support and for sharing your thoughts. This exchange we have here is its own special kind of alchemy. ;-)  
> We're getting close to a resolution, which is great and a little sad for me...but we're not there yet! Still plenty to be told/resolved.   
> In the meantime, be well and walk in sunshine!


	27. Chapter 27

"If I got rid of my demons, I'd lose my angels."

― Tennessee Williams

* * *

"Cole!" Evelyn called out.

He halted in his tracks, but did not turn around. She caught up to him and placed her hand on his shoulder.

"I do not envy you your conundrum, Cole," she said straightforwardly. "Are you even aware you have one?"

When she glimpsed his eyes, they appeared as sorrowful as she had ever seen them; she fervently wished at that moment there was something she could do to ease his suffering.

_But that is it, isn't it? Easing the suffering. That's what it is all about. It is why he tore his way through the Fade. It is why he finds himself in this predicament now, a neither-nor being, walking in twilight._

_What had it been like, witnessing so much pain in another being and attempting to remain indifferent?_

Entities of the Fade had a flickering awareness of the tortuous twists and turns mortal lives took and often watched them unfold neutrally. Sometimes they became attracted to a more intense emotion for the novelty or the rush, for how exhilarating it could be, even if only for a moment. Extremes, as the warnings stated, were always dangerous territory, especially for mages: wrath, anger, lust, or pride…

She could tell he was picking up on her thoughts as he remained silent and pensive.

"It was what I always believed. Emotions are irrevocably linked to the human experience. We are the ones who traffic in them in our smallest interactions, who evoke and manipulate them through our actions and reactions. And all spirits could ever do was echo them—embodying them only when intense enough."

She brushed the back of her hand tenderly over his cheek.

"But how can I ever explain you? You contradict everything I've ever believed. When the boy known as Cole lay dying in darkness and pain, life fading from his body, there was no love whatsoever present in that dungeon. And yet, you still came forth. That was it, wasn't it? It was for love. So that in his greatest hour of need, he wouldn't die alone, forgotten, unloved. How can you reflect or embody what was never there to begin with? It was you and it was yours all along. You left the quiet certainty and peace of the Fade for this realm because you could not bear to merely stand aside and observe, because you could not tolerate the suffering you witnessed. That is more than most mortals would have done."

He watched her uncertainly, mulling her words.

"You honor the other Cole's memory by existing here, like this. But…" She took a deep breath. "You are not that young man. You cannot be who he was. You cannot live the life he would have lived. You must honor that, too. The other Cole died—his spirit passed. Your outrage and your wrath will serve no good purpose."

"What do you think I should do?" He hesitated, staring at the lush grounds beyond the path.

In the nearby distance, she spotted the man, peering out skittishly from between the low hanging tree branches to verify whether they had departed yet.

"You must choose the course of action that honors best who you are. I will stand by your side no matter what you decide," she told him earnestly. "But I want you to understand this…Knowing you has made me believe that there is little difference between spirits and humans. We are afflicted by the same weaknesses…and we aspire to attain the same ideals. I wonder, Cole, if the great gods of the past felt as lost as we sometimes feel, made mistakes and suffered their consequences… and I wonder whether—perhaps even hope— mere mortals can overcome great adversity and offer to each other in the here and now the guidance, kindness and comfort we so often expect to find in the divine."

"As above, so below…" Cole whispered.

Evelyn's eyes teared up.  _Yes_.

"Wiser ones have said so since the dawn of time, haven't they?" she squeezed his shoulder affectionately.

Varric and Solas approached cautiously. Cole stared ahead.

_We are at our best when we are helping others._

_If the purpose of each life is to find meaning, then I have been going about it backwards. I had a clear purpose from the beginning. Somehow, it got lost…while living._

He glanced back at Evelyn. His mind was clearer than it had been in a long time. His resolve steered him, a needle in a compass. He began to follow the path, turning only to beckon to the friend whose help he needed at that moment.

* * *

Cullen reached the final page of Evelyn's report and was struck by momentary confusion. He flipped the page back and forth, wondering if he had misplaced something—perhaps a page slipped out of order. He finally sat up in the bed, casting a quizzical look in her direction as she sat behind her desk, signing off on requisitions.

"I believe you are missing a page," he stated.

She peered up from her desk, quill securely in hand.

"No…I never finished it."

Cullen looked down at the report irritably.

"You can't just leave it like that. What happened to Cole?"

"He made a difficult choice," she disclosed, plunking the quill back into its silver holder. She rose, brushing her nightdress down with her hands, and made her way to the bed, slipping beneath the covers, close to his warm body.

Cullen watched her bewilderedly as she settled her head on his shoulder, even as the unfinished report still dangled from his hand.

"You aren't going to tell me?"

She pressed her lips together.

"Come— what did he choose?" he pleaded.

"He chose…What he believed was the best choice."

Cullen dropped his arms over the covers.

"This is a most terrible report, you are a very bad person, and no one appreciates having their patience tried with a cliffhanger!" he protested.

She grinned, running her fingertips over his naked chest.

"I thought you said I was better at hurling myself  _off_  cliffs, not hanging from them," she stated with coy innocence.

"You're really not going to tell me?" he asked in disbelief, feeling her huddle closer to him.

"I will," she said appeasingly. He glanced at her expectantly. "Tomorrow…" she decided as he groaned defeatedly. "There are things I still need to verify and follow up on before I can write about them properly."


	28. Chapter 28

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Dearest readers- No more cliffhangers. Those dark days are over. Your protests have been heeded! Here's ALL of it. The entire fic. Tonight. Live. In color. Answers, perhaps questions, and resolution, blessed be. I know people were pretty divided about what Cole should be- which is wonderful. I had been nervous about posting this chapter because I know there will be folks who'll feel disappointed. I gave it lots and lots of thought...found myself going back and forth early on...but ultimately this made the most sense for me and this fic. If anyone wants to have a discussion about it, feel free to go ask questions or post some thoughts after the final chapter.
> 
> tl;dr? ENJOY! ;-)

"We are not human beings having a spiritual experience. We are spiritual beings having a human experience."

― Pierre Teilhard de Chardin

* * *

The wind rattled the windows as the snow fell heavily outside. Despite it being early afternoon, a gloomy glow barely illuminated the rooms, forcing the staff in the main hall to light lamps, torches and candelabras. The study was particularly dark that morning, Evelyn felt, as she, Solas, and Varric wandered inside. She brought her incomplete report with her, seeking a more thorough account from both men before submitting it.

"The amulet appears to be working. Cole should be adequately protected," Solas attested.

Varric eyed him resentfully.

"Have you talked to him since? Have you heard what he sounds like?"

"He sounds like a spirit," Solas countered.

As if summoned, Cole materialized before them, sitting over Solas' desk, sprawled over his scattered papers.

"Nonsense words, like Bartrand at the end. 'Just need to hear the song again. Just for a minute.' I'm alright, Varric," Cole told him with an assuredness she hadn't sensed in his voice in a while.

"What matters is his happiness. Cole, how are you feeling?" she wondered.

"I am well," he told her. "There is work, wounded to help, hurts to heal, but the weight is off. The old chains have fallen."

Varric looked down at his fingers, examining his nails.

"You're not still angry with the man who hurt you?" he asked somewhat suspiciously.

"No…" Cole said thoughtfully. "I helped him forget. His pain no longer pulls at me." He continued, enigmatically, "A woman with two names slips a knife in darkness to a left hand. Honey stirred into Leliana's wine. Faith, not revenge." He disappeared as he uttered the last words.

They stood, staring at each other, speechless.

"He could have been a person," Varric mumbled.

"Possibly…"Solas conceded. "Would that have made him happier, child of the stone?"

Evelyn stared at where Cole had been sitting just moments before, placing her hands over the loose sheets.

They still felt warm, she smiled faintly.

* * *

She wandered out with Varric, their heads bent down against the storm's fury, braving the short distance between the main hall and the tavern. Inside, the fire greeted them warmly and heads leaned over tankards and cups in lively and comforting conversation despite the howling wind outside. A hush overcame the room at first as she entered it, but after an enthusiastic nod to the people assembled there in acknowledgement to their calls of "Inquisitor," the noise level gradually rose and she took her seat facing Varric at a smaller table.

"I still don't think it was right," Varric sighed. "He should have been a real person."

"But how do we know that was better than being a spirit?" Evelyn asked. "Neither you nor myself are qualified to say whether he should have chosen one over the other."

"He was talking to you before he made up his mind. What ever did you say to him?" he wondered bewilderedly.

"I told him the truth," she said. "That he should choose whichever path felt right to him…but to honor himself."

Varric struggled to peel his coat off, all while eyeing her askance.

"I asked him about the other Cole on the way home," he revealed, as he waved to Cabot, raised two fingers and pointed at their table. Cabot called out to one of his helpers as he rubbed a dishcloth over a freshly washed tankard.

"And…?"

"And he said he forgot the other Cole. Didn't want to talk about it." The disappointment was evident in the dwarf's eyes. They remained in silence as a barmaid brought them their ales on a large pewter tray.

"You know what an abomination is."

"Do I ever…" he clicked his tankard against hers before taking a somber sip.

"There are many stories told among mages, at every Circle, about spirits and mortals who ally and join. These possessions however, don't necessarily destroy or imbalance the hosts. Didn't you tell me that you witnessed such a case with a mage friend of yours?"

"Anders," Varric said dryly. "He wasn't an abomination…in the traditional sense of the word…No…" he hesitated. "And I couldn't tell you if his actions were spurred because Justice implanted them in his head, or if Justice gave him the courage to go through with them…but both were morally reprehensible for it…Abominations in their own way," he explained.

"Think about it, though. We only hear about the cases in which spirits embed themselves in mortal hosts."

Varric squinted.

"What are you getting at?"

"That Cole's case is unique. He is a spirit inhabited by a mortal's memories…Not a mortal's soul… But he isn't that other Cole—or even an extension of Cole. He took his shape because it was what he knew, what he saw."  _Out of love, out of solidarity_ , she thought. "But at some point, those memories, that humanity, began to encroach on our Cole and perhaps even to impose various wants, longings, needs…And those began to change him, weigh on him. If you ask me, one of the best ways Cole can honor his namesake is by giving him that space, that privacy…that individuality. He is not here to live the other Cole's life, to aspire to his missed opportunities and goals. So he must forget much like we must shut the door behind us when we leave…All those things were not his and did not allow him to be himself. He hasn't forgotten Cole completely—how can he? He is just remembering him in a different way."

Varric appeared unconvinced.

"I still think he should have become human."

"Define human, Varric," Evelyn peered into his eyes. "Because as far as I can see, Cole is kind, brave, and loyal. He is the most giving and selfless—everything good about us, people of Thedas, everything that we should aspire to be."


	29. Chapter 29

"If nothing saves us from death, at least love should save us from life."

~Pablo Neruda

* * *

In the quietude of the dispensary, Ava applied herself to sorting and shelving the smaller packets of dried herbs and salts that invariably became misplaced in her daily riffling through materials. It was a tedious task that nevertheless made her days more efficient. It also kept her from bursting out in impatient rants as she blindly felt up the shelves with her fingers for things that weren't where they were supposed to be. The silence and loneliness weighed on her; the day off had been imposed. Mullins had been adamant about it. Outside she heard the dragging rasp of shovels scraping the cobblestones as workers dug out the latest delivery of snow, courtesy of the previous day's storm. The fortress' activity had resumed at an even more urgent pace as people scrambled to make up for lost time. All day she heard horses' hooves clomping outside along with shouted directions. No one would come that day, except in the case of emergency. Her feverish activity over the past days had resulted in fully stocking the infirmary with the most frequently needed remedies.

"You are wearing yourself ragged," Mullins had said with her customary bluntness. "Do you want to make yourself sick? If you do, you will be of little aid to us," she tried to reason with Ava in a way she knew she would listen to.

 _Loneliness is when you can't be good company even to yourself_ , she reckoned, tossing empty packets onto the floor, which she would painstakingly sweep once she was done.

She had tried studying, but her mind would not sit still with her. It asked too many questions, and wandered beyond comfortable boundaries— hardly a considerate friend. At one point she had suggested to herself going to the library, but had not wanted to explain her evident haggardness to the ever watchful duo of Hester and Tameryn.

"It spins, going round and a-round, mill wheel, grinding under a rush of flowing thoughts…"

She reeled around in delight to find Cole standing by the fireplace.

"You've returned!" she exclaimed, rushing from behind the counter. The sight of him filled her with relief.

"To myself, as well," he uttered.

She smiled and clasped his hands in hers.

"Did it go well?" she had no idea where he had gone, but knew he had expressed apprehension over his trip.

"It went as it should," he explained.

"I am so glad you are here!" she squeezed his hands. He smiled back.

_Perhaps only those who see, rather than look, remember._

"Will you be coming with me to the infirmary again?" she wondered eagerly. "I've missed telling people I have an apprentice!" she told him gamely.

"Yes," he told her. He wanted to let her know, though that no one would remember him afterwards—that had changed and he wondered whether she wouldn't begin to find him fading in her mind as well.

 _It would be alright,_  he told himself, feeling the warmth of her hands over his, the radiant smile despite the sad eyes.  _She may go; I'll still remain._

"It's a strange and wondrous thing, isn't it?" Cole asked her.

"What is?" she asked, amused at her friend's puzzling meanderings.

"This!" he exclaimed, raising both their hands up to her eye level.

_Unconditional. She can take it all and does not need to return it._

He glanced at the door and smiled.

"There is one thing you must do, though," he told her in a conspiratorial tone.

"What is it?" She huddled in to listen.

A sharp knock, a familiar knock, resounded against the heavy door. Her head turned to stare, mystified by the unexpected sound.

"Open the door," he whispered, releasing her hand, his fingers gently slipping away from hers, as he stepped back into the room's shadows.

* * *

Adan glanced about him agitatedly, the thick leather tome resting against his chest. His entrails were bound in a knot. He did not know how she would greet him.

 _Perhaps she isn't here,_  he told himself, with a mix of dread and relief. Still, he poised his fist over the door and rapped firmly.  _One last time_ , he told himself.

At that, the door flew open, and before he could catch his breath, his apprentice's angry face greeted him. She stood before him, complete with arms akimbo.

"I can only imagine what you would have done to me if I had not reported for twelve days!" she said crossly.

He swallowed nervously as she stepped aside, ushering him into the dispensary.

"I have been very busy," he attempted to justify. "There were many things to resolve before…And, also, the invitation to go…It was sudden and I had to decide quickly…" he fumbled through excuses.

He entered the dispensary as she shut the door behind them.

 _All in order_ , he took in the tidy room with a melancholy grin.

"When do you leave?" she asked sullenly, reaching for the kettle.

"In an hour or less," he told her. She raised her head, her expression betraying her surprise. "As soon as they are able to clear the bulk of the snow over the bridge so the carts and horses can cross."

"Well, I am glad to see you didn't completely forget your apprentice. Even if I am an afterthought, wedged into your busy schedule at the last possible minute!" she scolded him.

He could feel the blood begin to rise to his face.

"You were not an afterthought," he managed to tell her. He placed the book down on the counter and reached into his satchel for two neatly rolled up scrolls. "Here." He thrust them into her hands. "These are letters recommending you for an apprenticeship. They bear my seal," he pointed, "which essentially guarantees you will have your choice of apprenticeship anywhere you choose."

She unfurled one of them and glossed over the erudite, scholarly handwriting she knew so well.

"And I would also like it if you took this," he added, seizing the tome off the counter. She stared back at him, bewildered, unable to react, both hands clutching a scroll. He grimaced impatiently and plucked the scrolls out her hands, offering her the book instead.

She dazedly opened it at a random page. At first she browsed past the usual dry academic explanations her eyes had glazed over so often, but then she noticed the margins danced with words, drawings, diagrams and numbers. She leafed through the book and realized these were his notes, his impressions, formulas, and realizations. She gasped.

"For me? But…Won't you—"

"I know it by heart at this point," he said, his eyes lingering over her face tenderly. "I will never forget."

He cleared his throat. "It will be put to better use if you study from it, provided you don't set it on fire or spill tea over it," he teased.

He expected one of her saucy retorts, and with that, to be released and turned on his way. Instead, she closed the book gingerly and brushed her fingers over the cover. She raised it to her nose and inhaled. He puzzled.

"What are you doing?"

"It smells like you," she grinned, shutting her eyes against the tears. "I am going to miss you, Adan," she confessed.

He felt himself falter from the unexpectedness of her words, from the tone of her voice.

"I will…I am going to…miss you. Very much, too," he admitted, grasping for any semblance of his cool, professional demeanor. "You are…were…an excellent apprentice."

"No, I am not," she revealed, her voice tremulous, as she shook her head. He sought her eyes, finding in them a pained expression that mirrored his. He did not want to turn his back on her like that, seeing her so upset.

"Why would you ever—"

"No, you see…"She raised her hand to dab at her eyes. "Excellent apprentices don't fall in love with their masters," she told him. "I would have been happy staying just the way it was before, but now you are leaving and I'll never see you again…"

The silence was marred only by her slight sniffing.

"Don't say that," he finally said.

"I am sorry," she told him. "It's selfish of me and you came by to give me all these lovely—"

"No—don't say you will never see me again," he murmured gently.

Before she was able to respond, he reached for her and gathered her in his arms, pressing her tightly against him, burying his face in her hair.

"Adan?" she asked in astonishment.

"How did I not know?" he censured himself. "Ava, I never saw it, I never suspected it. I didn't dare," he told her contritely, gazing into her eyes. "I never believed it could be possible that you would ever reciprocate what I have felt for you for so long," he smiled.

She returned the smile. It was all bittersweet, she thought. Outside a deep, mournful horn sounded loudly. They both recognized it as the rallying call for the departure of Inquisition forces. They had heard it almost daily, but never before had it held any meaning for either of them.

"It is almost time," he told her, glancing at the door, his heart at once heavy and light. She flung her arms around his neck.

"Listen well: you have to come back to me," she pleaded. "Stay with the soldiers, don't wander off on your own, I don't care how alluring the flora seems, don't test any new elixirs on yourself, even if you're certain that they'll work, and above all else: do not get eaten by any dragons!" she ordered him, anxiously.

He held her tightly, committing her scent, her warmth, her shape to his memory.

"Wait for me," he asked her. "I will return—I promise," he assured her.

"If you don't, I'll hunt you down. I'll bang down the gates to the Black City itself, you know, because that's where you will be sent to if you don't make good on that promise," she warned him, both of them lightly laughing through tears. The horn resounded once more over the rooftops of the fortress, reverberating ominously.

"I have to go," he told her, caressing her face. He leaned in and kissed her lips almost timidly. She chuckled, brushing her hands over his bearded cheeks. He furrowed his brow, mystified.

"What is it?"

"It tickles—just like I imagined it would," she whispered, returning his kiss, more ardently.


	30. Chapter 30

"There is some good in this world, and it's worth fighting for."  
 _The Two Towers ~_  J.R.R. Tolkien

* * *

Evelyn scanned the square with a smug sense of accomplishment. Just a few months ago she had been in that exact spot as the Chantry decried the evils of the Inquisition and attempted to rally the templars against her. Now, she grinned, she was the toast of the Royan court. The past weeks had been a hurricane of events, shifting alliances, and reexamining evidence. What everyone agreed on, though, was that they had struck Corypheus a significant blow. There was little time to rest on her laurels, however. Shortly after Halamshiral, Josephine had found herself embroiled in an odd assassination plot to be carried out by the House of Repose. The entire situation was so ludicrous that even the hired assassins hinted at the regrettable circumstances by affording Josephine a rare warning and unusual reprieve. Leliana had been ready to send in her own assassins to do away with the contract on Josephine's head, but Josephine was beside herself.

"I do not want anymore blood spilled because of me!" she had warned them.

It would have been infinitely easier, Evelyn thought, to simply let Leliana do her shady work. But ever since Leliana's name had begun being uttered among Chantry leaders as a contender for the position of Divine, she had felt a strong tug at her own conscience. Leliana teetered between piousness and dark intrigue because of her past and because of her skills. She knew her spymaster could be quite ruthless, but she had also witnessed the depth of her devotion. She'd been adamant from the beginning, as far back as Haven, even, that they would not be agents of terror, securing their influence through needless bloodshed. It made her question the nature of the previous Divine, as her Left Hand had been very willing to deploy any means necessary to achieve their goals. It had taken time, many a conversation, and the forging of a bond based on mutual trust and affection to help her shift into a more sanguine approach to her affairs. The only viable solution to that convoluted case had been to curry favor with judges, ministers, and other people of influence who could help sponsor and ratify the restitution of aristocratic status to the Du Paraquette family that had placed the original bid over a hundred years ago. The family had eagerly pledged its support and willingness to revoke the original bid, of course, and now she found herself back at Val Royeaux often, between that sordid business and the Inquisition's participation in the drafting of new treatises between Orlais, Ferelden, and the Free Marches.

She had taken the evening off for herself, entrusting the negotiations on the rights to some disputed trading routes right between Orlais and Ferelden's borders to Josephine. Having to be on her toes in the presence of two very clever and cunning foxes, Celine and Briala, would help distract her mind from the whole assassination affair. She had invited Cole to keep her company during dinner, as he was rarely intrusive.

 _Well, as much as a mind-reading entity could be,_  she snickered.

The early evening was still sunny and gloriously warm; spring had begun to spread out in the valley beyond the mountains. The bustle of the downtown area actually soothed her- Royans, and their colorful fashions, love of good cuisine and conversation had an infectious joie de vivre. Although Celine always insisted she sojourn at the palace during her visits, she enjoyed her little forays into town.

She wandered towards a favorite open-air tavern off the main square, aware of Cole weaving in and out of her line of sight as he perused the crowd.

"Inquisitor!" the maitre-d' exclaimed gleefully— and loudly, she noticed amusedly, as heads began to turn and notice her. "You honor us with your presence!" he completed with a florid little bow.

"Will you be dining alone, Your Worship? Or will others be arriving later?"

Although Cole had been standing fairly close by, the Maitre-d' had not taken notice of him. He began to walk among the tables, interestedly.

"Who can tell these days? I didn't even realize I was alone just now," she smiled politely.

He returned her smile and with a sweeping hand gesture, welcomed her into the dining area.

"Very good, Your Worship. Right this way, please."

He ushered her to her table, close to where the minstrel plucked a languid melody.

Cole approached them and paused before the man.

"You can tell her. She'll laugh, and then do it, because she loves you. She wants to make you happy," he stated enthusiastically.

The maitre-d' paused and blinked at him, caught for a brief moment in his thoughts. She placed her napkin over her lap while observing them. The man simply turned and walked away.

Evelyn arched an eyebrow.

"Anything you'd like to share?" she asked, watching the man step back behind his podium.

"He wants his wife to tie his hands to the bedposts. Little silk ribbons. He worries she'll hate him," he reported.

 _Yes, Royans do have a joie de vivre_.

A waiter brought her a basket of freshly baked bread, butter, and the usual fussy couvert popular in Orlais: dainty hardboiled quail eggs, pâté, and fresh crudités in a small glass bowl filled with crushed ice. He poured her a fresh goblet of water and handed her a parchment with the day's fare.

"She only said it because she was jealous of your shoes. Remember his hand on your waist as the music swelled," he said to a dour-looking woman sitting beside a masked man.

They both turned to listen to him. He disappeared in the blink of an eye and the pair began to edge their way towards a timid conversation.

Evelyn popped a quail egg in her mouth.

"So many little hurts, even here, away from blood and battle," he confided to her.

 _Even spirits of compassion can use a little change of pace_ , she observed.

"I wouldn't have heard them before," he revealed. "Now I can, thanks to you."

"So you help them with a few whispered words?" she marveled.

"The right words," he emphasized. "Plus, what I am, a little of me making the happiness stronger, so the pain fades. I don't steal the pain," he explained. "The nightmare demon at Adamant did that. It made them less so it could grow. I help them heal. They never need to know I was here."

 _We are at our best when we are helping others_ , he remembered.

"You've made me better," he told her gratefully.

"It was my pleasure!" She told him sincerely, looking into those eyes the color of the sky on a clear day.

He flickered and reappeared beside a man engaged in a conversation with an officer by the entrance. She could barely make out his words.

"Remember Old Maurice, too proud to forgive, gnarled hands clutching the back of an empty chair. Find another path."

He meandered back to the table.

"There was someone, before. He was my friend, but he didn't know what I was. When he found out, he changed. I lost him. You found out, but you didn't change, didn't make me change. You let me be this, be more."

Evelyn listened, moved by his words.

"Thank you for helping me find this again, For believing in me. You don't know what it means."

"You're welcome," she said gently.

He proceeded to disappear and reappear throughout the meal, offering his enigmatic words of comfort to all. Despite herself, she found herself smiling. She dabbed at her lips self consciously, wondering if people would start talking about the dotty Inquisitor smiling daftly at nothing.

 _What do I care?_  she shrugged, stabbing at an elusive mushroom.  _I wonder how many people will leave today feeling lighter, happier?_ She noticed the Maitre-d' seemed to have caught a second wind, welcoming his guests with far more verve.  _He definitely has a spring to his step!_

"They will never know," Cole startled her, reappearing by her side unexpectedly. "But I know. Thanks to you."

"I helped the best I could. The choice was ultimately yours."

"Let her know I will be there, one step back, then to the left, back up, and to the right. One-two-three-four, one-two-three-four… in the shape of a square," he said in deep concentration.

Evelyn squinted.

"Now that's unexpected!…"

Cole smiled.

"He'll escort you to the Marquis' ball. He didn't think he'd be able to, but they left a day earlier."

"Cullen?" her eyes widened. "That's impressive, Cole! How are you able to channel his thoughts from so far away?"

"I hope you didn't order dessert yet," a familiar voice spoke behind her.

She smiled broadly, watching Cullen slide onto the bench opposite her, a pleased grin on his face.

"Well played, Messeres. Well played!" she laughed.

* * *

The line in front of the courier carriage departing for Orlais was, as usual, long and slow. One of the Chantry Sisters had a stack of letters going all over the country, but had failed to specify codes.

"But this is going to the Gracevine camp in Emerald Graves," she insisted. "There is only one Gracevine camp!"

"Yes, Sister, but if you don't identify it by its code, once the letter goes through sorting at Val Royeaux, it'll get tossed aside because no one has time to hunt down the codes."

"That is terrible!" the woman said, outraged. "I don't have any of those codes—and these messages are vital to the faithful!"

The courier sighed deeply and with a shrug of resignation, reached inside his carriage for a battered, poorly bound catalog.

"Here you go, Sister. Why don't you look for the codes?" He peered over the line and announced loudly, "I need to take a short break while Sister here fills out her codes. I should be back in a quarter of an hour."

The small crowd issued a bevy of complaints and mild jeers as the courier indifferently jaunted away. The Chantry Sister clutched the charcoal pencil the courier had handed her and recruited the man standing behind her for help.

"Can you help me, my son?"

The man, who had been grimacing and huffing earlier, replied humbly.

"Of course, Sister."

They all watched as the man leafed back and forth through the catalog seeking out the codes for the locations she dictated to him.

"Highgrove Camp," she announced. "That's in Emprise du Lion," she explained patiently, peering down at him from her thick spectacles.

"Think I have time to run to the commissary for molasses?" a woman behind Ava whispered to her friend.

Ava wondered if she had enough time to pick up a few supplies herself. She reached into her apothecary's apron hoping she'd had the foresight of bringing a few more coins beyond the ones needed to send out her letter. Her fingers grazed the tip of the seashell in her pocket and she grinned. Cole had been drifting in and out of the infirmary at random hours, frequently missing her shifts altogether. She still saw him, though, a reassuring and comforting presence at her patients' bedsides. Almost no one else remembered him despite all his efforts to alleviate their troubles, she thought sadly. Children often noticed him without any difficulty, however, and liked to giggle at the man with the funny hat. He also seemed to be away more often than not those days, she realized. Still, they had developed a way of communicating even when they couldn't meet: they'd leave each other little gifts on the dispensary's windowsill. Two days earlier she had left him a dazzling red bird feather. That morning she'd found the feather gone and a tiny seashell in its stead.

She had already read and reread Adan's letter as soon as it had arrived, a bit earlier. He wrote to her almost daily, as did she. She kept all his letters, tied in a neat stack with light blue ribbon by her night table. He told her about the vast landscape, the endless slopes of sand that shifted, and the unrelenting, scorching heat. She liked his descriptions of Griffon Wing Keep and the people he met there: soldiers, workers, traders. He described his work, sometimes venting over the lack of progress or smugly congratulating himself for figuring out the way out of an impasse—she always grinned and shook her head at that. He'd befriended a scholar, Frederic de Serault, and had enjoyed many conversations about the man's field of expertise, which Adan had been annoyingly elusive about, making Ava suspect she would be quite livid if she ever found out the man's specialty. He drew her detailed pictures of gruesome beasts—quillbacks and varghests— and more delicate sketches of the resilient plants that endured the punishing climate and terrain. He had a keen eye for detail and a way with words so that she felt as if she were there with him. He would ask her about her disposition and about her health—something she found endearingly quaint. He begged her to describe her days, update him on her studies, and share her thoughts and impressions. She adored his letters, especially when he would remind her of how much he missed her, how much he cherished her, and how deeply he loved her. She'd find her mind wandering to a particularly stirring passage and on more than one occasion had to be called several times out of her reverie by her colleagues. She held the thick letter addressed to him patiently. The day was still crisp, but in the breeze she could catch a hint of spring. Nubbly buds had begun to pinpoint the bare trees in the courtyards and in the garden. Further ahead in the line, two men began to speak to each other loudly.

"My sister down in Lothering said that mages were trying to establish these portals through which small objects could be sent from one place to another. If that were to happen, can you imagine? No more wretched lines."

His companion, a gruff, stocky man, turned to face the back of the line.

"Oi! Mage!" he called out.

Ava stiffened, suddenly so nervous it took her a moment to realize that the man was addressing the young man standing a few people ahead of her.

"What say you? Can you get us in on some of that action?" he chuckled.

"If I could, do you think we'd all be standing here?" the young man replied jovially.

Ava grinned, exhaling with relief. It wasn't too long ago that such a conversation might have gone quite differently, she reflected.

"They'd have to make a portal big enough for what I want to send my wife!" a booming voice stated suggestively from the back of the line.

Ava peeked over her shoulder to see a dark haired, bearded dwarf. A volley of laughter and cat calls erupted. The Chantry Sister looked up disapprovingly.

"That's hardly appropriate!" she chastised the ribald crowd.

"I meant my love, Sister! My love! It knows…no bounds!" the dwarf continued, apologetically. The Sister pursed her lips, not convinced one bit. "Sweet Andraste, I wonder what she thought I was referring to!" he said in a exaggerated whisper.

Ava suppressed a laugh.

 _Better days are coming_ , she thought hopefully.


	31. Chapter 31

The book of love is long and boring

No one can lift the damn thing

It's full of charts and facts, some figures and instructions for dancing

But I,

I love it when you read to me.

And you,

You can read me anything.

The book of love has music in it,

In fact that's where music comes from.

Some of it is just transcendental,

Some of it is just really dumb.

But I,

I love it when you sing to me.

And you,

You can sing me anything.

The book of love is long and boring,

And written very long ago.

It's full of flowers and heart-shaped boxes,

And things we're all too young to know.

But I,

I love it when you give me things.

And you,

You ought to give me wedding rings.

The Book of Love ~ The Magnetic Fields

* * *

"Again," Adan insisted.

Ava pressed the book against her chest and began reciting the long and complex order of ingredients of a burn-treating maceration recipe.

"You inverted the order of the last four," he told her, pouring hot water into two cups.

"Does it really matter?"

"Absolutely not," he said. She braced herself. She knew that tone. "Unless you are the patient with a bad burn expecting a proper maceration to ease the pain, but end up with a delightful cough syrup instead."

She sighed.

"I am merely trying to help," he stated calmly, stirring a pinch of herbs into the cups.

"I am so exhausted," she confessed, slamming the book cover shut and slumping into her chair.

She heard his footsteps towards her. He handed her a cup of tea and took his seat next to her. Summer was almost gone, she noted. A slight chill was in the air and they had lit the first fire of the new, incoming season.

"You brought this upon yourself, you know…I have never met anyone who dared to undertake both apothecary and medical studies at once," he teased her, taking a sip from his cup. "It's quite mad, if you ask me."

She watched him, taking in his serene countenance, his fine scholar's hands. It never ceased to amaze her that he could quiz and test her without ever having to refer to any of the texts. Mullins was constantly testing her on her readings, but needed to verify the tomes as she did so. Adan appeared to know everything inherently, naturally.

"In my defense, I was quite mad at the time. I was heartbroken over this daft alchemist and sought to drown my misery in the study of matters of consequence," she declared, anticipating his reaction.

He almost spat out his tea, but his expression softened. He sought out her hand and entwined his fingers between hers.

"I don't know who was the bigger fool: you, committing to your inane studies, or me, signing up for an assignment in the Western Approach," he grinned.

"You," she deadpanned. "Apparently, asking out the woman you fancy is more frightening than the prospect of being poisoned and digested by sulfuric springs while gnawed at by varghests," she scolded him playfully.

He raised her hand to his lips, kissing it tenderly.

"Don't forget 'impaled by quillbacks.' Those were quite nasty," he grimaced.

"You are fortunate I allowed you back in here after all that," she told him, with mock indignation. "Otherwise you'd still be bunking in the barracks."

He arched an eyebrow.

"Hardly! I have been reinstated as Skyhold's Head Apothecary and as such, can dispose of the dispensary however I see fit," he explained with a sly grin. "Technically, I am the one who allows you to live here."

"Technically, I am the one who allows you in my bed," she said bluntly.

It gave her a twinge of pleasure to see him turn so red. She burst into laughter, giving in to the urge to embrace him. She felt his hands caress her back as she rested her forehead against his.

"Speaking of bed, I am turning in," she announced. She tilted her head closer and they kissed, a kiss that hinted at their desire. "Come up soon?" she asked, rising from her chair and tugging his arm gently.

"I will, he said affectionately. "Go ahead—I'll be right up. I'll finish my tea and tidy up down here."

He watched her make her way up the steps, a warm emotion overwhelming him. He stared into the fire, swirling the dregs of his tea around the cup's bottom, lost in pleasant thoughts.

He did not startle when he saw the young man in threadbare clothes and a humongous hat appear in the seat beside him. He stared at the young man and noticed he was smiling approvingly at him.

"Yes! Do it. Ask her tonight," the young man whispered encouragingly. "She will say yes."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Thank you so much. This has been such a great experience and I've appreciated everything- the comments, PMs, Favorites and Follows. I've enjoyed the exchanges I've had with many of you, and I need to send a huge thank you and shout-out to JaneBeyre, who not only has been so amazingly supportive and kind, but has become a friend between so many exchanged reviews and putting up (and even encouraging) my kooky PMs over at FF. She has inspired me with her excellent and gorgeous writing. She set the standard- I just try to keep up!
> 
> I started this on a whim, determined to tell the story of a young man whose personal quest was so poignant and rich. For the record, I like that both choices are "good" ones. It's up to Cole to make the best of it, right? Also, I don't think that Cole is for an instant less caring or loving in spirit form. I strongly suspect the authors who wrote Cole's part in Inquisition were inspired by the depiction of these angels, from two movies by Wim Wenders, "Wings of Desire" and "Far Away-So Close!" If you'd like, Google a scene (search for "Wings of Desire subway scene") that shows one of the angels, Damiel, wandering through Berlin and listening to people's thoughts...and offering them courage, like someone else we know...If you know the movie, you might find my comparison ironic, but I think Cole in this case would be more like Cassiel, who tears through his own version of the Fade because he wishes to prevent a tragedy. I think, like Damiel and Cassiel, Cole loves deeply, non-judgmentally, and selflessly.
> 
> I like to believe Cole is something of an angel. ;-)
> 
> Be well! And thank you, again!
> 
> Exeunt.


End file.
